


When It Alteration Finds

by kaydeefalls



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Romance, M/M, POV Poe Dameron, Poe Dameron backstory, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, all the backstory, all the soulmark lore, but only by like half a step
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:55:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 31,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24774256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaydeefalls/pseuds/kaydeefalls
Summary: Poe is nine years old when his mark first appears, in an alien script he can't even read. When he's twelve, it…blurs. Like someone took an eraser to an old chalkboard, but couldn't quite scrub it out.That's not the end of their story.(Soulmark!AU. Sometimes it takes a while.)
Relationships: Poe Dameron/Finn, Poe Dameron/Other(s)
Comments: 68
Kudos: 155





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Diving headfirst into the soulmate trope and not looking back. Many thanks to **Cinnamongirl** for looking it over.
> 
> This is a WIP, with 20k+ words already written. Goal is to update weekly.

> _Love is not love  
>  Which alters when it alteration finds,  
>  Or bends with the remover to remove.  
>  O no! it is an ever-fixed mark_  
>  (William Shakespeare, Sonnet 116)

* * *

Poe is nine years old when his mark first appears. As Forcemarks go, his is fairly innocuous -- a small cluster of dark swirls nestled into the soft inner curve of his right elbow. He might have had it for days before he finally notices and takes off running to show his papa.

"What's it _say_ , though?" he demands, sticking his arm right in his papa's face, nearly hopping from one foot to the other in excitement.

Kes Dameron examines the mark contemplatively. "This isn't any script I can read, mijo. But it looks vaguely familiar. Let me think on it." He presses a kiss to Poe's head. "Don't worry, Poe. You'll have plenty of time to find them."

In Poe's opinion, he's waited quite long enough already. Nine whole years! It's not terribly unusual -- markmates are rarely exactly the same age, and your mark doesn't appear until they're born. So Poe has always known he'll be older than his markmate, whoever they are, since he wasn't born with a mark. And even though nine years feels like an awful lot to him, it isn't _too_ bad. Poe's abuela is a full twenty years younger than her husband, and they're markmates. And Lida Kanter down the street was only marked when her daughter was born, so of course that's always been a possibility, too. Familial marks are not uncommon -- Kes Dameron's own mark had been his brother's name, not his wife's.

But Poe at least expected to be able to _read_ the name marked on his own skin!

"I don't know why," Kes laughs, when Poe complains about it. "You were never meant to stay on one planet your whole life, mijo. You have too much of your mother in you. Of course your markmate would be from some distant star system!"

They eventually go into the city to use the university databanks, which scan his mark and match the script on it. Apparently it's in the alphabet of a language primarily spoken in the Jinata system. That makes his papa go quiet and distant.

"Those used to be Imperial planets," is all Kes will tell him. He smiles gently. "But that's all over now, don't you fret. I hear the cities on Vardos are beautiful. We'll have to visit someday."

They never do.

When Poe is twelve, his mark… _blurs_. Like someone took an eraser to an old chalkboard, but couldn't quite scrub it out. It looks like ink smudged faintly across his skin, only the vaguest suggestion of the original script remaining.

He's too old to let himself cry easily by then. But he knows what it must mean. Kes has a faded scar on his inner wrist where his brother's name used to be.

Kes's face pales when he sees Poe's mark, and he closes his eyes.

"Sometimes," Kes says, some time later, "I believe the marks are just one way the Force _guides_ you to the right people. It's not about having your true love's name tattooed onto your skin. It's just a nudge in the right direction. Did I ever tell you about your mother's mark?"

Shara Bey had died unexpectedly when Poe was eight, before he even had a mark of his own. He only knew that she and Kes weren't markmates. As far as Poe was aware, she'd never had any mark at all.

"She was born with a mark on her shoulder," Kes tells him. His voice is quiet, but calm. "I never asked what name it was. All she said was that her mark vanished completely when the planet Alderaan was destroyed, as though it had never been there at all. And she joined the Rebel Alliance the very next day." He lifts his own shoulder in a lopsided shrug. "That was how we met. If the Death Star hadn't targeted Alderaan, perhaps her markmate would have become the love of her life, and I would have met some other hotshot pilot to make a baby with. Who knows? But this is what happened. And your mother didn't love either of us any less for not having her name on my skin."

"I know, Papa," Poe says, and he _does_. But he's only twelve years old, and he used to have a name written inside his elbow in a script he hadn't yet taught himself to read, and now he'll never learn how to pronounce it. And...he never _met_ them, he can't possibly be mourning them, but there's an empty space inside of him now that he doesn't know how to fill.

But his mom's death left an empty space in his heart, too, a gap much bigger and far more _tangible_ , and he learned how to live with that, so. A smudge on his skin that used to be a word is nothing next to that.

He doesn't let himself think about it much. But the mark never scars over, like Kes's or most of the other people he knows whose markmates have died. Nor does it ever disappear completely, like Shara's supposedly did. It's just...a smudge. A blur.

Sometimes, over the years, he thinks maybe the shape of it is slowly changing. But that must just be his mind playing tricks on him. He doesn't mention it to anyone else.

* * *

When he's around fifteen, it feels like suddenly all his friends at school become kriffing _obsessed_ with Forcemarks. Which, okay, they're a bunch of hormonal teenagers trying to figure shit out, of course they're gonna latch onto the promise of a markmate who'll love them forever. Some spend hours at the library, poring through databanks of languages and etymology of names and stuff like that. A handful have already met their markmates -- there's always gonna be a few around the same age who are born in the same general area -- and they become truly insufferable. Poe's friend Ady swears she'll never even kiss anyone before she meets her markmate; a few of the others take the opposite approach, desperate to get in as much practice beforehand as possible, either because they really, _really_ want to impress their future markmates with their physical prowess, or because...well, teenagers.

Poe's no better than any of them, he supposes. With no markmate of his own waiting for him, he's happy to be "practice" for his more attractive friends. But mostly he just spends more and more of his time in his mom's old A-wing, both on the ground and in the sky, restless to go further, faster, to get off this rock for good.

There are a handful of others among his cohort who are equally unimpressed with the newfound obsession with Forcemarks. Poe's first real boyfriend, Niko, has a familial mark; it's refreshing to hook up with someone else who isn't waiting for any kind of Force-destined romance.

"It's all bantha shit anyway," Niko remarks once, when they're fooling around in Poe's bedroom while Kes is out working. "I mean, the data clearly shows that something like a quarter to a third of all Forcemarks wind up being non-romantic in nature. Blood kin, or best friends, or whatnot. I read sometimes they're even between members of species that can't interbreed at all, though that's gotta be freaky as all get-out."

"Oh, my papa knew someone like that once," Poe says idly. He traces invisible constellations across Niko's back. "His general back during the war. Han Solo."

Niko frowns, propping himself up on one elbow. "I thought Solo was married to Senator Organa."

"Yeah, but they aren't markmates, not according to my papa. Supposedly Solo shares a mark with his co-pilot. A Wookiee." Poe shrugs. "I mean, it just goes to show, like you said. Marks aren't the be-all and end-all."

"No," Niko agrees, with a very particular grin. "So kriff 'em."

Poe has a good time with Niko for a few months there. But he's never comfortable letting Niko touch his mark. Not that it's a thing, really, but he shies away whenever Niko gets too close to it. Niko learns quickly and doesn't push it. He's just as weird about Poe touching the back of his neck, where his cousin's name is written in tidy, feminine cursive. "It's, like, the _opposite_ of sexy," he explains once with a shudder. "I mean, I love Mima to death, she's my best friend in the galaxy, but...ew, _no_. Whatever the antithesis of an erogenous zone is, that's her mark."

So Poe figures they're even. Even though that's not quite the way he feels when Niko accidentally touches his inner right elbow. The blurred mark is… _sensitive_. Like a sunburn, when someone else touches it. Clothing doesn't affect it, and Poe can poke at it himself without really feeling much, but when Niko accidentally brushes against it, it feels _wrong_.

But whatever. It doesn't have to mean anything. Niko avoids his arm, Poe avoids Niko's neck, it's all fine. Who needs some invisible Force pushing him around, anyway?

* * *

He's accepted into the New Republic Fleet Academy a few weeks after his seventeenth birthday. Yavin IV has been feeling smaller and smaller with every passing month; it's like Kes said, Poe's got too much of his mother in him to be happy staying dirtside forever. And by joining the Fleet, he'll be able to really flex his wings, and feel like he's maybe doing some good in the galaxy while he's at it.

"Poe Dameron, patriot," Niko scoffs when Poe tells him. They broke things off a while back, but Niko's still one of his closest friends. "What's the New Republic ever done for us, huh?"

Poe shoves at his shoulder. "Hey, don't knock it, we'd all still be crushed under the Empire's jackboots if it weren't for people like my parents."

"Those were the Rebels, not the Republic," Niko retorts. "And don't tell me it's the same thing, you _know_ it's not, even if Leia Organa is a senator now."

"Well, it's people like her who'll make sure the Empire never comes back," Poe says. "And they're gonna let me fly, which is what matters."

" _Let_ you?" Niko laughs. "Buddy, I'd like to see them try and _stop_ you."

He does give Poe a farewell blowjob, which Poe thinks is a pretty good sendoff.

His first day at the Academy starts off with a battery of tests and a full physical examination. The doctor pauses at the blurred mark on Poe's arm. "Forcemark?" she asks.

Poe shrugs, hiding a wince as she runs her gloved finger gently over it. "Used to be."

She hums noncommittally and continues on with the exam.

As he's getting his clothes back on, Poe can't help but ask, "You ever seen a mark like mine before?"

The doctor takes a little too long to reply. "No two Forcemarks are exactly alike."

"Yeah, but. Blurred like that? Because, I mean, it used to be normal, but..." Poe trails off, feeling intensely self-conscious all at once.

There's pity in the doctor's eyes when she looks back up at him, exactly like when anyone else notices his faded smudge of a mark, and this is why Poe should learn to just keep his damn mouth shut about it. "The Force isn't always strictly quantifiable, Cadet. Like I said, no two marks are alike. And the marks themselves can have any number of different physical reactions to the loss of one's markmate. I'm sorry if that's not the answer you were hoping for."

Poe hunches his shoulders forward, looking anywhere but at that pathetic, pitying expression on her face. "Don't worry about it. You're not telling me anything I didn't already know."

He's issued his first set of ID tags at the end of the day. The fronts have his name, species, and serial number engraved into the metal. The backs are marked with a single letter _U_.

"Hey," he asks his new roommate, a friendly guy named Wexley. "What's the back of your tag supposed to mean?"

Wexley snorts. "Uh, is that like a trick question or something? It's the name on your mark, isn't it? So that if the worst happens, you know, they can get sent back to your markmate."

Something sour settles into the pit of Poe's stomach. He's pretty sure he can guess what the U stands for. "Right," is all he says aloud. "Obviously. Sorry, dumb question."

In the Fleet, he quickly learns that the Unmarked have a reputation for recklessness. They have a higher rate of volunteering for more dangerous assignments or longer-term missions. The first time Poe gets chewed out by a superior officer (for attempting a torque roll in a malfunctioning T-70 during a training drill), the sergeant's high-decibel monologue includes a number of expletive-laden invocations regarding Poe's Unmarked status and how it does and does not relate to his imminent mortality.

Given some of the stunts his fellow cadets pull, Poe is inclined to think his recklessness has a lot more to do with youthful hormones than the lack of a markmate. Anyone who willingly signs up to be a fighter pilot is probably gonna be a bit of an adrenaline junkie. So he just shrugs off the dressing-down like he does anything else relating to his mark. But it itches under his skin anyway, angry and restless.

He starts wearing sleeveless shirts whenever he can get away with it, leaving his blurred mark exposed to the open air, teaching himself not to care who notices or what they think about it.

* * *

His first year out of the Academy as a newly-minted Lieutenant in the New Republic Fleet, Poe's squadron runs across some spice runners on the outskirts of the Bryx sector during what was supposed to be a routine patrol. The admiralty is notoriously slow in responding to Mid Rim postings (which is still a step up from duty in the Outer Rim, when you're lucky to ever get any kind of response at all), so rather than wait for permission to engage, Poe splits off from the rest of his squadron in the hopes of tracking the smugglers back to their base of operations.

This winds up being more complicated than he'd originally anticipated, especially since he can't risk actually firing on the ship -- a Ghtroc light freighter that's much nimbler than it has any right to be -- without giving away his position or, you know, getting court-martialed for it later. The smugglers lead him on a merry chase through hyperspace halfway to Kessel, and while he certainly doesn't set any records, the Kessel Run has been on Poe's bucket list for _years_ and he enjoys himself a lot more than he probably should in the process.

He finally runs them to ground near a New Republic outpost at Formos. Of course, by the time he's convinced the local Fleet representative that it's worth boarding them, they've long since dumped the worst of their cargo and will likely get off with a slap on the wrist at best.

The captain of the smuggling freighter never bothers removing her helmet during the boarding process, but Poe gets the distinct impression that she's smirking at him the whole time. "Congrats, Lieutenant," she says mockingly, while the outpost guards perform their desultory search and Poe does his best not to roll his eyes. "All that for, what, a few hundred credits' fine? You must be very proud."

Poe shrugs. "It's the principle of the thing."

"Yeah, that's real convincing." She tilts her head to one side. "Where'd you start tracking us, may I ask?"

"What's it matter?"

"Professional curiosity. It was at Junkfort Station, right? I knew we were burning too hot--"

"Bryx."

That shuts her up. Hard to read a helmet, but her body language goes still and contemplative, and she doesn't say another word for the rest of the inspection.

But Poe's the last one out the hatch after the smugglers have paid the requisite fine, and the captain stops him there with a gloved hand on his bicep. "That was some impressive flying," she says in a low tone, with a purr to it that definitely gets Poe's attention. "Whenever you get tired of doing the New Republic's scut work, look me up. We could always use a good pilot."

Her hand slips down his arm to his elbow, and though there's no way she could possibly know it, she's pressing the pad of her index finger right against his blurred mark. Even through the layers of fabric, it stings like a bruise. Poe jerks out of her grip. "I'm no spicer."

"Perish the thought." She sounds amused. "But our flight path is a lot more interesting than a Fleet patrol, that I can guarantee. When you get bored, just head on over to Kijimi and ask for Zorii. I'll let you finally spread those wings of yours."

He just turns on his heel and steps off the freighter. But when he's stuck on endless routine patrol runs over the next few months, he can't help but remember dodging and spinning his way through the Corkscrew, the adrenaline singing through his veins, and his fingers twitch on the controls of his Starhopper.

* * *

It's not _all_ scut work. He's too talented a pilot to be wasted entirely on patrols, and the higher-ups figure that out eventually.

"Heard you somehow managed the Kessel Run in an HH-87," Colonel Keranti remarks, flipping through Poe's file. "Didn't think those buckets were agile enough to pull that off."

Poe stands at ease, hands tucked neatly behind his back. "Wasn't the full run, sir. Only got about halfway to Kessel before the ship I was tracking pulled out of hyperspace, so I followed."

The Colonel lifts an eyebrow. "Learn how to take a compliment, Lieutenant. Starhoppers weren't built for those kinds of acrobatics, so the fact you survived a jaunt through the Akkadese Maelstrom is impressive enough, full run or no."

The Maelstrom _sounds_ a lot more ominous than what Poe actually experienced, but he keeps his mouth shut. At least this doesn't feel like a reprimand.

"Now, normally I don't make recommendations based on hearsay, but your instructors' notes from the Academy back it up, as does your current commanding officer. You're rated on more than a dozen different classes of starfighters -- looks like you got top ranking on pretty much every ship the Fleet currently operates, even the RZ-2 A-wing, and she's a stroppy little bird." 

Poe allows himself a faint smile. "Quicker than sin, though, sir." His mom had first taught him how to fly on the RZ-1 model, which was nearly as temperamental as its successor, but you never forget your first love.

The Colonel looks Poe over with dark, shrewd eyes. "Ever tried one of the stealth Corvettes?"

"I thought those had been discontinued, sir. After the Clone Wars."

"Well, the Corellians figured out there was more money in their consular line of vessels, and the Empire strongly discouraged independent production. So in a way, yes." He drums his fingers against the file. "Think you could fly something a little subtler than a starfighter, son?"

Poe grins outright. "I can fly anything. Sir."

"Glad to hear it." The Colonel flips back to a page near the front of the file and studies it for a long moment, eyes narrowed. It looks like Poe's enlistment paperwork from the Academy. He can't imagine anything particularly noteworthy there, but who is he to question a colonel? Finally, the Colonel snaps the file shut and looks back up at Poe. "All right, Lieutenant. I'm pulling together a new squadron. Nothing too far beyond the pale, but there are a few sectors that have been getting a little hairy of late, and I need our best eyes in the skies. You'll occasionally be handling more sensitive missions, and you'll get to test out some of our experimental aircraft along the way. Sound interesting?"

"Absolutely, sir," Poe says. Anything to break up the monotony of Mid Rim patrols. "Who'll be our commanding officer, if I may ask?"

"You will." The Colonel stands, and Poe automatically snaps to attention before his brain can process the words. "You've just been promoted to Commander, son. Congratulations. Welcome to Rapier Squadron."

* * *

Rapier is the smallest squadron Poe's encountered in the Fleet -- just three lieutenants under his command. But they're all sharp as tacks and excellent pilots, with wicked senses of humor. Poe thinks they'll get along just fine.

It takes a few months before Poe figures out the other thing they all have in common, apart from their flight rankings, and then it's only because the left wing engine in Muran's new atmospheric C-1175 model eats a bird shortly after takeoff and promptly explodes. Muran manages to gently crash land before the fire spreads to the cockpit, and he emerges from the wreckage with only a sprained ankle to show for it, but Poe frogmarches him directly to the infirmary anyway. And that's how he happens to see Muran's medical file when the medic brings it up on their datapad.

At first, he thinks it must just be a coincidence. But it nags at him all the way back to the ready room, where Karé Kun and Iolo Arana are waiting to give Muran a cheerful round of razzing for his little accident. They've all bonded pretty quickly, and Poe already knows the names of all six of Kun's siblings and that she was born right smack in the middle, knows Arana's favorite food and that there's only one restaurant in the entire Mirrin sector that makes it, knows that Muran has a steadily shrinking bucket list of species he hasn't slept with yet.

But he doesn't know the name of a single one of his squadron's markmates.

"Hey," he says abruptly, once they've reassured themselves that Muran hasn't been permanently scarred by his little misadventure. "This is gonna sound weird, but...do any of you have Forcemarks?"

"Why?" Kun teases, batting her eyelashes at him. "You think one of us might be a match?"

Poe rolls his eyes. "You should be so lucky. But seriously. _Any_ of you?"

"Nope," Muran says. "Always seemed like a waste of time to me. Why does anyone wanna shackle themselves to just one other person for their entire lives? The galaxy is way too big for that shit."

Kun props her chin up in her hands, her amusement fading into contemplation. "I don't, either. Just figured it hadn't come in yet. I mean, maybe I'm a bit old for it, but it's not exactly unheard of, you know? Besides, I'm too kriffing busy to deal with a markmate right now."

"Mine was familial -- my grandfather," Arana says quietly. "He died a few years before I started at the Academy." He hikes up his pant leg, and they can all see the puckered scar just above his ankle.

Three pairs of eyes turn slowly to Poe. He shrugs off his flight jacket and rolls up his sleeve past his elbow to show them his strange, faded blur of a mark.

"All right," Kun says, after a long moment. "So we're all Unmarked. So what?"

Arana's frowning. "That's...not statistically likely, though."

"I don't think statistics have anything to do with it," Poe says slowly. "We were each handpicked specifically for this squadron."

"You're the Commander," Kun points out. "So you tell us, Dameron. Why would the Fleet need an exclusive squadron of Unmarked pilots?"

Poe just shakes his head and says nothing. But from then on, whenever the Colonel gives them a new mission, he wonders if this is the one that Rapier is not expected to come back from.

They're all very good at their jobs. No one ever mentions Forcemarks again, and as time passes and they continue their patrols and test flights and special missions without incident, Poe tries to make himself relax. Maybe it's just the old aptitude bias at work, that the best pilots have to fly like they've got nothing to lose. Maybe this is standard operating procedure for elite squads.

But just 'cause none of them have markmates out there waiting for them to come home doesn't mean they've got nothing to lose. Poe would kill and die for any one of his team, and knows that they'd all do the same for him, and for each other. Maybe _that's_ why, he thinks. Build a team of people who will always put each other first, before anyone else in the galaxy.

Poe wants to believe that. But he can't help waiting for the other shoe to drop.

* * *

Sometimes, Rapier still gets sent on routine patrols. The Mirrin sector hosts a number of key trade lanes, and they're vulnerable to the crime syndicates that have been growing increasingly powerful in its neighboring sectors, which technically lie outside of New Republic jurisdiction. 

After a minor skirmish between a trading freighter and several Kanjiklub harriers, Poe directs the freighter in to the Fleet docks at Mirrin Prime in order to smooth things over with her crew personally. The captain's voice had sounded borderline hysterical over the comms, which seems a bit disproportionate for the situation -- although stars know the Kanjiklub have a nasty reputation -- so Poe wants to make sure everyone's all right.

" _Yissira Zyde_ , this is Rapier Leader, requesting permission to board."

"Permission granted."

It's all fairly routine, just checking in on their cargo manifest to see if there's any further cause for concern, and calming down the crew. The captain is an older, anxious-looking Twi'lek, her green skin sallower than healthy. "Point of origin?" Poe asks, as gently as he can.

Her lekku flick at her shoulders, but she meets his eyes evenly and her voice sounds much calmer than it had over the comm. "Vardos, in the Jinata system. We're currently transporting textiles."

Something in Poe's memory gives a determined twitch. "I hear the cities on Vardos are beautiful," Poe says without really thinking about it, hearing the same words echo in his father's voice. He shakes it off. "Just textiles? You list a passenger manifest of fifteen -- that's more than a ship of this size normally carries."

"The artisans who crafted them as well," the captain says steadily. "There's a galactic trade expo on Hosnian Prime."

Poe smiles. "Sounds like fun." He can't imagine what the Kanjiklub would want with a freighter full of artists and their tapestries, though. Something feels off here, but he can't put his finger on it.

He runs down through the usual questions, keeping an eye out for anything out of place. A few of the passengers are hovering around the edges of the cargo hold, probably shaken up by their close encounter with the harriers, but they seem harmless enough. He notes one human, a couple more Twi'leks, and a Mirialan. Pretty diverse bunch, but not unusual. One of the other Twi'leks has what looks like a bruise staining her purple-tinged cheekbone.

Not a bruise, Poe abruptly realizes, all his senses zeroing in on the Twi'lek woman. A Forcemark. But faded and blurred beyond legibility.

"Excuse me," he tells the captain distractedly. "I'm sorry, I need to just--" 

The other Twi'lek doesn't shrink away at his approach. She meets his eyes with something like resignation, a reluctant sort of recognition there.

"I'm really sorry, I don't mean to be rude," Poe tells her, already fumbling with the sleeve of his flight suit. "But your cheek -- your mark -- I've never seen another one like _mine_."

She puts out her hand, stopping him. "You do not need to show me," she says wearily. He can't place her accent. "It is not a mate to mine, if that is what you are thinking."

He isn't. Or, well, he doesn't really know _what_ he's thinking, but that possibility hadn't actually entered his mind yet. "No," he says helplessly. "But..."

"It is not uncommon, where I come from."

His stomach plummets as he makes the connection. "The Jinata system. That's -- before it blurred, the script mine was written in, it matched to a language--"

She nods slowly, like it costs her a great deal of energy to do so. "Yes, I believe you."

"But _why_?" Poe asks, hating how helpless he sounds. He's not used to being caught off his guard like this. He thought he'd gotten over the hurt of his faded mark years ago.

"Because this is what the First Order leaves behind," she replies heavily. "Blurred marks and empty hearts."

It's not the first time Poe has heard mention of this so-called First Order, some kind of supposed resurgence of Imperial sympathizers. His superiors brush aside such rumors. Poe's wondered about it, but never enough to push the subject.

The Twi'lek clasps his arm, near to his own blurred mark. "I am sorry for your loss. But if your Fleet does not take action, and soon, there will be many more such in your future."

He blinks at her, taken aback. "What do you--"

But the captain pushes between them, then. "Are we done here, Commander?" she asks, and some of the anxiety has crept back into her tone. "I do thank you for your intervention with those pirates, but I have a schedule to meet."

Dazed and wrong-footed, he lets the freighter go.

Ten hours later, the New Republic base at Mirrin Prime receives an urgent distress signal. It's from the _Yissira Zyde_ , again. This time, Rapier Squadron arrives too late. The freighter has been hijacked by First Order forces, which Poe's superiors categorically deny. Disobeying direct orders, Poe leads his pilots on an unsanctioned mission to track them down, desperate to save a Twi'lek woman with a blurred mark on her cheek and a trading ship full of textiles.

Instead, they land in the middle of a dogfight with a full squadron of TIE fighters, and Muran's ship is destroyed when the stolen freighter jumps to hyperspace.

Poe is formally reprimanded by the admiralty and stripped of his command, demoted back down to Lieutenant. Kun and Arana both resign in protest, and Poe quits the Fleet with them. Less than seventy-two hours after first encountering the trading freighter from the Jinata system, Rapier Squadron has officially ceased to exist.

* * *

The Twi'lek's words haunt him -- _this is what the First Order leaves behind, blurred marks and empty hearts._

_It is not uncommon, where I come from._

Poe never even knew her name.

"I think they were refugees, asylum-seekers," he tells Kun and Arana grimly, in their passenger compartment on a transport out of Mirrin. He can't even remember where they're heading. All any of them currently care about is getting as far away from the Fleet base as possible. "They were fleeing the Jinata system. The old Empire had an iron grip on Vardos and a couple other planets in that sector -- it used to be called the 'Imperial utopia' -- so if the First Order is trying to pick up where the Empire left off, it makes sense that would be one of their strongholds. But they're getting bolder, if they're willing to infringe directly into New Republic space." He frowns, considering it. "Do we know if the Kanjiklub syndicate has any ties to the First Order?"

Arana shifts restlessly on his bunk. "I've certainly heard rumors to that effect. The Hutts, too."

"That would explain the harriers, I guess," Kun says. "Seemed like an awful lot of fuss for a cargo of textiles. But if that was just a cover story to get those passengers to Hosnian Prime..."

_Blurred marks and empty hearts._

"I need to get to Vardos," Poe says abruptly. He rubs at his arm, his mark itching like a sunburn when it peels. "Get eyes on the ground, figure out what they're actually up to. We can't afford to deal in rumors and hearsay, not anymore. We need hard evidence."

"Like a kriffing _squadron_ of TIEs?" Arana snaps. "'Cause buddy, that was all the evidence I needed. Never thought I'd see one of _those_ outside a history holovid."

"And it's not like evidence is gonna change anything," Kun adds bitterly. "The admiralty have their heads stuck so far up their own asses--"

Poe shakes his head. "They're just _scared_ , and they don't want to admit that the bad old days could ever come back. They'll do the right thing once it's staring them in the face. They'll _have_ to." He forces himself to stop itching at his mark, shoves his hands deep in his jacket pockets instead. "Anyway, I've got some personal business to attend to in the Jinata system, too."

He should have made this trip years ago.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Poe has a really shitty year, learns some painful truths, and befriends a droid.

Of course, he's currently a New Republic defector without a ship of his own, and there don't seem to be any transports going in or out of the Jinata system these days. Even if there were, though, Poe knows better than to take that route. What he needs is a ship.

What he needs is the money to buy a ship.

What he needs is a _job_.

Poe's never been too good about saving up his Fleet pay. Life of a fighter pilot: you might be dead tomorrow, so who needs a retirement plan? Use it or lose it, pal. He's not much of a gambler, he's not in debt or anything like that, but what he didn't send back home to his papa, well, he never saw a point in denying himself. So while he's not completely broke, he also can't afford a ship that won't shake itself apart the first time he tries to punch it to hyperspeed. So his options right now boil down to whatever he can beg, borrow, or steal, and that ain't looking too hot.

He and his former squadmates decide to split up for now; Poe's dead set on getting to Vardos, while Arana wants to contact a few of his fellow Keshians who've been murmuring about a new resistance movement that's been growing on the fringes of the New Republic. Kun, the pragmatist, tells them both that when they're ready to actually do anything interesting, they can find her on Takodana, where she knows a friend of a friend of Maz Kenata. Plenty of different folk pass through there; she can make a decent living as a starship mechanic while she waits.

After parting ways with his friends, Poe starts working through the local spaceports. He quickly learns that independent crews operating with New Republic sanction aren't too keen on hiring a Fleet defector, and none of them are willing to fly anywhere near the Jinata system anyway. An extended series of decreasingly legal odd jobs eventually get him to Kijimi City spaceport, and, well, it was probably inevitable anyway.

He finds a disreputable cantina in the Thieves Quarter and asks the bartender if she knows anyone named Zorii.

Okay, so it's not his smartest move ever, but Poe's never been great at subtlety, and it just seems...expedient. The evening does end with him on his knees in the freezing (and filthy) alley behind the cantina with a wickedly sharp knife tickling his throat, but honestly, that's still not the worst night he's ever had. Some explanation and negotiation later, he's allowed to depart with his neck intact, suffering only the cost of some outdated Fleet intel and his blaster. The intel's old enough that he doesn't feel particularly guilty about it, and the blaster was a shitty secondhand DC-17 that misfired three times out of ten anyway. If Zorii hires him on, he'll be able to afford a better one soon enough.

Three days later, he's piloting a creaky, ancient KLT-Kuat with a persistent and vaguely nauseating shimmy to Kollux, its cargo hold full of Corellian liquor that Zorii assures him will fetch a handsome price in the far outer rim. "The governor requested it special," she says drily. "It's a whole thing over there. And once the credits hit my account, I won't notice if it takes you an extra day or two to get back. Kollux is a pretty quick hyperspace run to the Jinata system."

Poe looks the freighter over with a scowl. "In this bucket? It's just as likely to shake apart the first time I punch it."

It's hard to tell with the helmet, but Poe would swear she's grinning at him. "Flyboy, I trust you about as far as I can throw you. If I gave you anything nicer, I doubt I'd ever see you or it again."

Well, she's not exactly wrong.

"It's just this one job," he warns her. "I'm not a spicer."

"Sure thing, sweetheart. Long as we all get paid, you can call yourself whatever you like."

She sends two of her crew along for the ride -- "Negotiators," she calls them, and judging by the muscles, Poe's pretty sure theirs is a very physical sort of negotiation. The human, Rharo, is at least a foot taller than Poe and looks like he's got Wookiee somewhere in his genetic profile, and the Rodian female, Neeshul, obsessively disassembles and cleans every piece of her rather alarming stash of weaponry while they're en route to Kollux.

For all that, though, the job goes off without a hitch. They only have to dodge around one lonely Fleet patrol in the Mid Rim hyperspace run, and Poe could've done it in his sleep if it weren't for the crotchety controls. But the Bucket survives the jumps just fine, and when they make planetfall on Kollux, it's only a matter of hours before the credits exchange hands -- or accounts, whatever -- and the crates of liquor are offloaded by very friendly locals. Poe's never been good at reading Rodian facial expressions, but he bets Neeshul's pissed that she didn't get to use even a single blaster. 

He quickly plots out their next course from the cockpit while Rharo closes down the cargo bay. Neeshul drops down into the unnecessary copilot's chair and regards him impassively.

"Zorii mentioned you might take a quick detour on the way back," she says. Her tone is as unreadable as her face.

"Yeah. That gonna be a problem?"

"Jinata system, right?" When he doesn't reply, she taps her long fingers along the edge of the control panel. The suction cups at the ends of each finger make a faint squelching sound as they hook on and then release. "First Order's got claws in deep there. Might not be such smooth sailing for us."

Poe frowns. "Like I asked before, is that gonna be a problem?"

Her antennae twitch, which seems like the Rodian equivalent of a shrug. "Don't mind a fight, but I'd prefer a good reason for it. What's in the Jinata system?"

"Vardos."

Neeshul is unimpressed. (He assumes.) "And what's on Vardos?"

"Answers to some questions, I hope." Poe rapidly programs the route into the nav computer -- the Bucket does better when it's got a course to follow -- then initiates the takeoff sequence. He flicks on the shipwide comm. "Rharo, we good to go?"

Rharo responds in the affirmative, and they leave Kollux behind.

They never do make planetfall on Vardos, though. Approximately two minutes after emerging from hyperspace, the Bucket gets hailed by a First Order light cruiser and its accompanying squadron of fighters. Rharo takes over the comm and manages to talk their way out of being boarded by virtue of a surprising breadth of local knowledge, but it's made clear that Vardos is a no-fly zone for the foreseeable future, and Poe's got enough self-preservation left to know when to cut his losses and retreat. The archaic weapons system on the Bucket might be able to hold off a couple of TIEs on a very good day, but not a full squadron plus the artillery cannons on that cruiser.

"Well, that was fun," Neeshul says blandly, once they're safely en route back to Kijimi. "I'll be in my bunk if you need me."

She leaves. Poe badly wants to punch something, but the control panel on the Bucket is too twitchy to risk it, and the other human onboard would probably punch him right back, which would not end well for Poe. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly instead, forcing himself calm. "Thanks," he tells Rharo shortly. "Normally _I'm_ the one fast-talking my way out of trouble."

Rharo's massive shoulders roll in a shrug like swells on the ocean. It's fascinating to watch. "Used to be good salvage on Vardos and Athulla after the Empire fell, before J-Sec regained control of the system," he rumbles. "I knew those planets pretty well once. My markmate's Athullan. Been years since I passed through there, but it don't change much. Coulda told you it wasn't worth the trip."

Poe's stomach does a little flip at the mention of a markmate. "Maybe not. Is that why Zorii had you come along on this run?"

"Zorii likes to cover her bases."

"So I'm learning." Poe eyes him narrowly, considering. If he really did know the Jinata system… "Hey, mind if I ask you a personal question?"

"You can ask. Might not answer."

"Fair enough. You said your markmate's Athullan. Your Forcemark somewhere private, or can I have a quick look at it?"

After blinking at him for a minute, Rharo shrugs again. He rolls up his shirtsleeve to the bicep, where there's a name written in the easily recognizable glyphs of Outer Rim Basic. It's not Poe's preferred alphabet, but it's still the galactic standard language, not a foreign script. Nothing like what used to swirl across his own skin. "Thanks," he says, looking away. "Sorry to bother you."

Rharo studies Poe curiously as he shakes out his sleeve. "What were you expecting to see?"

"Nothing. I don't know. It doesn't matter."

"And what's a mark got to do with anything? Your markmate from the Jinata system or something?"

Poe lets out a bark of laughter. "I'm Unmarked."

"Hmm. Whatever you say."

"No, really," Poe says, and figures, _what the hell_. "Here, you showed me yours, it's only fair." He pushes up his own sleeve and bares the blurred nothing inside his elbow. "See?"

Rharo looks at the smudged skin, then back up to Poe's face. "That how it's always looked?"

Well, what does it matter? There's no chance of getting to Vardos anytime soon, and to be honest, it was always a reach. What would Poe have done, anyway -- wandered around the city asking everyone he passed if they knew why local marks were blurring? That would've been a great way to get the First Order's attention.

He's been flying by the seat of his pants ever since the _Yissira Zyde_ , and it's gotten him nowhere, fast.

"No," he tells Rharo. "It used to be a name in a script I couldn't read, but supposedly it was a language spoken on Vardos. That's all I ever knew."

Rharo hums thoughtfully. "Lots of languages spoken on Vardos. Might be I'd recognize it, though. Do you remember what it looked like?"

Of course Poe does, even though it's been more than a decade since it blurred away. He finds a pad with a stylus and sketches out the swirls to the best of his ability. Rharo takes one look and nods. "Can't read it, but I've seen it before. You're outta luck, though. Not gonna be easy to track down anyone who speaks that anymore -- or, at least, anyone who'll admit to it."

"Why?" Poe asks sharply. "What do you mean?"

"Came out of a religious sect that settled on Vardos after the Battle of Jakku. Can't remember what they called themselves or where they started out, but they thought it'd be a safe haven once the Empire was defeated. Not a race -- all sorts of people, different species. They were all Force-sensitive, but refused to be trained up in it. Think the original founders were ex-Jedi, maybe, but they refused the Sith, too. Didn't hold with the Light or Dark sides of the Force, preached balance above all things." He shrugs. "First Order didn't like them much. You can guess why. They wiped 'em out ten, fifteen years ago. If any of them survived the purge, they're long gone."

With every word, Poe's heart sinks further. He'd known there was no hope, that whoever his markmate had been, they must be dead. But that distant knowing was different than hearing it all laid out like this, so matter-of-factly.

He was nine when his mark appeared, and twelve when it blurred away. That meant his markmate had been all of three years old when they were killed. A child, hardly more than a toddler. And the First Order had murdered them.

And here it was fifteen years later, and the New Republic still wouldn't admit the First Order even _existed_.

"Okay," Poe says, voice sounding very distant to his own ears. "Thanks."

It takes another ten hours before they make planetfall at Kijimi. When Zorii mentions she might have another job that needs a pilot, Poe accepts without even blinking.

Why the hell not? It's not like he's got anywhere better to be.

* * *

The next year passes in a blur for Poe. Afterwards, he doesn't really remember anything in particular about his time with the Spice Runners. He takes any job Zorii throws him, and doesn't ask questions. She starts trusting him with nicer ships than the Bucket; he doesn't run off with any of them, because there's nowhere worth going. Between runs, he drinks his way through a succession of seedy cantinas, sleeps with anyone who's interested to pass the rest of the time -- including Zorii, more than once. He knows he's not her top choice of bunkmate -- hell, he prefers male or nonbinary partners as a general rule himself. But she's sharp and clever and attractive, especially once the helmet comes off, so he'll take what he can get.

He makes any number of acquaintances among the criminal underworlds of any number of Outer Rim planets -- those contacts do wind up coming in handy later on, as it turns out, but there's nothing strategic about it at the time. Maybe that's why they accept him so readily; just another disillusioned defector lying, cheating, and scavenging his way through life. He doesn't use violence unless he's forced into it, and never samples or steals any of the wares he smuggles, but that's about the only good Poe can say about that year of his life.

Then Zorii catches word of a potential salvage haul: the remnants of an aerial skirmish between First Order and New Republic fleets. The First Order left no survivors, but didn't bother scavenging the wreckage; the New Republic admiralty, of course, refuses to admit it ever even happened, so who knows how long it'll take before anyone manages to cut through the bureaucracy and order a retrieval mission?

Poe programs the rough coordinates into their freighter, and a few slow, bumpy jaunts through hyperspace later, they end up in atmo over a long-overlooked Outer Rim moon.

It's a bleak scene. While much of the fight had occurred in open space, some of it had been drawn down into the moon's atmosphere, and the wreckage of a number of X- and B-Wings as well as TIEs and a couple of frigates were scattered across several kilometers of savannah-like grasses. The frigates prove the best salvage -- some of the equipment inside is still in decent shape, and Neeshul appraises the artillery cannons with a gleam in her unlidded eyes -- but Poe finds himself drawn to the B-Wings. There's one in nearly perfect condition, apart from a jagged hole where the canopy had been. It strikes a chord somewhere that Poe had buried deep inside of himself when he'd resigned from the Fleet.

"We'll get good money out of that," Zorii remarks, tone amiable behind the omnipresent helmet. "The gravity's low enough that it skidded to the ground rather than crashed, and apart from the cockpit, all the parts are in working order. Even had its astromech still jacked in."

Poe can see a filthy BB unit huddling up against the wreckage of the B-Wing, rocking back and forth on their little round body, almost convulsively. Their head bumps against the metal with each rock, very lightly, and Poe can hear them emitting a faint but persistent whine.

He wonders what ever happened to his old Fleet mech, a cheerful if not terribly quick-witted R6. He hopes the droid is just as happy with whoever their new pilot is.

"What's the plan for the BB?" he asks.

Zorii barely spares it a glance, still making notes on her pad. "Tried accessing its memory bank, but the damn thing got too damaged by the blast that took out the canopy. Babu will take a look once we get it back to Kijimi. Probably not worth the cost to repair, but we might get a few credits out of it yet."

" _Damaged_?" Poe echoes sharply. "Kriff, Zorii, the poor thing's traumatised. They just lost their pilot."

At that, Zorii pauses. "'Traumatised'?" she drawls. "Never figured you for one of those softies who think droids have _feelings_ , Dameron. It's just a machine. Not like it's got a Forcemark or anything."

Poe stiffens. He's seen the remnants of Zorii's mark: a long, ugly scar on her abdomen. She oughta know better. "Yeah, well, neither do I, so sounds like me and this droid'll do fine together. I'm keeping the astromech. Feel free to dock the credits out of my share."

"None of the ships we run even _use_ an astromech!"

"Not with that attitude they won't," Poe calls back over his shoulder, but his focus is all on the little droid. He crouches down beside the starfighter, careful not to crowd the BB unit. "Hey there, buddy," he says softly. "Bad day, huh?"

The BB stops rocking, but they continue whining mournfully.

"Yeah," Poe says. "I hear you. I'm sure your pilot was very brave. And so are you. You take all the time you need, buddy, okay?"

Eventually the droid calms enough for Poe to cajole them away from the B-Wing. When he gets out a rag and starts scrubbing off the grime and scorch marks, the BB switches from a whine to an appreciative low hum. By the time Poe's finished, they've even started responding to Poe's quiet commentary with brief binary chirps -- rarely more than affirmatives or negatives in response to simple questions, but still, it's a start. 

They clean up white and orange.

* * *

Something inside Poe reawakens, after that. Like he's been half asleep for the past year, like a fog in his head is finally clearing. It seems like his time in the Fleet, the sense of purpose he felt there, belonged to someone else's life entirely. Is this really the person Poe Dameron has become -- a scavenger, a _spicer_? Is this who he wants to be? Sure, he can tell himself that he's sticking it to the First Order, in his own way -- a lot of their runs involve getting needed goods to planets the New Republic no longer protects -- but he can't pretend they're humanitarians, here. They're smugglers. If they happen to do some good along the way, great, but Zorii's first priority is looking after her own profits; and if they hurt people who don't always deserve it, well, that's just the price of doing business.

He's always been the sort of guy who acts on his gut; doesn't tend to waste a lot of time in painstaking deliberation, agonizing over his options. His instincts have generally served him well enough in the past. This year of just letting the wind blow him where it will has been an aberration; maybe that's why he's so relieved to take _action_ again.

"That B-Wing," he remarks casually to Zorii the next morning, when they're starting to pull all the salvage together for the trip back to Kijimi. "I know we don't have the space to haul it in the freighter. Are you gonna try towing it or just strip it for parts?"

BB-8, who's been stuck to his side like a burr ever since Poe cleaned them up the day before, lets out a low, unhappy whine and bumps against Poe's shin in protest.

"Strip it, probably," Zorii agrees. "Though it's a shame -- would get a much better price if we could bring it in intact." She tilts her head to one side. "What are you thinking?"

Poe shrugs, giving her one of his more charming smiles. "I'm thinking the only real problem's the cockpit, and there are three other fighters just like it in varying degrees of destroyed strewn across the grass that _do_ have salvageable canopies. I used to have to do my own maintenance on those things. I'll bet you my whole share that I can get her spaceworthy, at least enough to get her to Kijimi alongside the freighter. We've even got the astromech, don't we?"

He pats BB-8 on their smooth dome, and the little droid burbles excitedly, informing Poe that they are perfectly capable of navigating the B-Wing anywhere Poe should wish.

"Hmmm." Poe can practically hear her brain whirring, calculating the bounty she'd get on a fully-functional New Republic B-Wing versus just a few of its parts. The math is very much in Poe's favor. "How long would you need? I don't want to linger here for more than a couple of days."

"If you'll lend me Rharo for muscle, I can get it done before nightfall tomorrow." The shield generator's a lost cause and he's not skilled enough to get the weapons system functional anywhere near that quickly, but he just needs to be able to fly the damn thing, not take it into battle.

And Poe can fly anything.

* * *

When the Spice Runners' freighter punches it into hyperspace, heavily laden with salvage, Poe and BB-8 are piloting the reconstructed B-Wing right alongside them.

But they don't plot in the coordinates for Kijimi.

Poe runs hard and fast, knowing that the element of surprise will only buy him a few hours' head start once Zorii catches on to his betrayal. He can't make for any familiar spaceports, has to steer clear of any system where the spicers do their running. Fortunately, they _are_ just smugglers and scavengers, not a true criminal syndicate, and Zorii's influence doesn't reach much beyond the Bryx sector.

He can't go back to the New Republic Fleet, of course. Much as a part of him yearns for his home planet and his father's counsel, he doesn't want to bring any trouble down on Yavin, either. And he hasn't been in contact with his former squadmates since they split up a year ago; Iolo Arana could be just about anywhere by now, but Karé Kun…

Poe tells BB-8 to set a course for Takodana.

* * *

He's always liked Takodana. It's a lush, beautiful planet that reminds him of Yavin, and its location just off several major trading routes makes it a popular resting place. Rapier Squadron would occasionally stop off at the castle for a drink and a few hours' lively conversation when they patrolled the Mid Rim, though never in uniform.

Poe lands the stolen B-Wing under cover of the dense forest and hikes to the castle with BB-8 still rolling alongside him. The droid seems to have a taste for adventure, and doesn't mind bumping over roots and rocks with a clumsy sort of enthusiasm.

Seems like a slow morning in the cantina, but no one gives Poe a second glance. He grabs a drink from a disinterested barman and settles into a corner, keeping an eye out for Kun. There's no one here he recognizes from previous visits, but business will likely pick up as the day wears on. He'd made planetfall just before sunrise.

"So there you are, Flyboy." Maz's distinctive drawl shouldn't take him by surprise, but he starts at it. He must've been dozing off over his drink. Well, it's probably been a couple of standard days since he's had a chance to grab more than a quick nap. It's easy to lose track of time out in the black.

He scrubs a hand across his face, hoping he looks rakishly disheveled and not just a total mess, and flashes Maz her favorite smile. "Hey there, Maz. Been a while."

"Too long," she sniffs disapprovingly, clambering up to glare at him from atop the table. This is just kinda what Maz does, so no one else pays them much mind. "I heard you been running with spicers."

Poe winces. "It just sort of happened. Anyway, I'm out now. Hopefully. You seen Karé Kun around lately?"

"No. She has better things to do." Maz folds her arms across her chest. "And so do you. Leia has been waiting for you to pull your head out of your ass. Are you on your way to her now?"

"I -- what? Leia? As in, Senator Leia Organa?" Poe's eyes are probably about as big as Maz's right now. "Why would she -- I mean, I haven't met her since I was a kid!"

Maz shakes her head, clicking her tongue. "Boy, you _have_ been out of the game for a spell, haven't you? She's no Senator anymore. She's the General of the Resistance now. And it's time and past that you join the _real_ fight."

* * *

Maz gives BB-8 coordinates: not to the Resistance themselves, of course. These are suspicious times, and Poe didn't help matters by screwing around with spicers. But the coordinates lead them to a long-abandoned former Rebellion base on a small, dull planet that seems mostly made up of rocks and scraggly grasses. Small wonder no one ever cared much about this one. 

It takes the better part of an extremely boring day before anyone else shows up. When they do, it's in three absolutely gorgeous X-Wings that Poe, having spent several days in a battered and crotchety B-Wing following a year in a series of uninspiring smuggling freighters, is absolutely _dying_ to fly. 

Then they land, and it's even better than he thought, because Iolo Arana, Karé Kun, and his old Academy roommate Snap Wexley tumble out of the cockpits.

He is man enough to admit that he cries a little at the sight of them.

"Poe kriffing Dameron!" Karé yells. "Where in seven hells have you _been_?"

"Oh, you know," Poe says, cheeks hurting from grinning so widely. "Around."

He convinces Snap to swap rides with him, because it is actively breaking his heart to be so close to an X-Wing without crawling into the cockpit. Snap, an extremely competent if unremarkable pilot, is a much better mechanic than Poe and expresses his frank disbelief that the reconstructed B-Wing hasn't fallen to pieces in hyperspace yet. He insists they remain in place for the better part of a week while he carefully works it over, sending Karé and Iolo out on supply runs to the nearest spaceport so that they can get the old girl flying _properly_. 

"Got me this far," Poe points out.

BB-8 cheerfully spits out an alarming series of probability calculations detailing exactly how much of that was due to sheer dumb luck. 

"You've been keeping that to yourself this whole time?" Poe demands, light-headed with the shock of how very narrow those odds were.

The little droid is, apparently, quite the adrenaline junkie.

Eventually, Snap declares the B-Wing spaceworthy, and they all set off to the Resistance's current base of operations. BB-8 burbles happily as they transfer the coordinates Iolo gave them into Snap's X-Wing, and Poe runs his hands across the controls like he's reacquainting himself with an old lover. The four starfighters launch themselves into the sky in perfect formation, and for a few minutes, Poe almost believes that it's Rapier Squadron all over again, ready for the next mission.

He hasn't let himself grieve Muran, not really, but Snap's affable presence helps to fill the gap, just a little.

* * *

D'Qar is an obscure planet, well away from any commonly trafficked space lanes, and the base itself lies in the planet's tropical zone. The lush jungles remind Poe of Yavin, though the local wildlife bears very little resemblance to his homeworld, and the flora is much more muted in coloring.

The other pilots bring Poe directly to the General, in her private quarters. "Don't stress out too much about it," Iolo murmurs in Poe's ear. "We've told her all about you."

"Yeah, that's kinda what worries me," Poe grumbles. Iolo claps him companionably on the shoulder and abandons him to his fate. 

He's met Leia Organa a couple of times before. The first time was as a child on Yavin, when she and her brother had attended a Life Day ceremony as Kes and Shara's special guests. At the time, Poe had been much more awed by Luke Skywalker, legendary pilot, than any boring old senator. But Leia had been clever and funny, and spoken to him like a _person_ rather than just a kid, and he'd liked her more than he'd expected.

Later on, she'd given a commencement speech at the Academy -- not for his own graduating class, but he'd been in attendance to cheer on some friends, and managed to sidle up to her during the meet and greet afterward. He can't even remember what excuse he'd used, or what they'd said -- in fairness, he'd been pretty well inebriated at the time. He must not have embarrassed himself too horribly, though, or he'd definitely have heard about it later. And later he'd seen her in passing a handful of times while he was with the Fleet -- she'd been on some appropriations committee or another, as a Senator, and was on first name basis with the Admiralty.

But none of that makes him feel particularly prepared to meet one-on-one with General Organa of the Resistance. Especially given his more recent...exploits.

"Poe Dameron," she says, looking up at him from her desk. She looks older and more tired than he remembers, but her dark eyes are as sharp as ever. "I'm glad you've joined us."

He unconsciously stands taller -- not quite at attention, but it's a near thing. "General," he says. "Thank you for having me."

She waves an impatient hand. "Oh, don't start with all that. We don't stand much on ceremony here. And for goodness sake, have a seat. We've got a long chat ahead of us, may as well make yourself comfortable."

He hesitates, then obeys, pulling up the indicated chair. "If you need me to provide my credentials--"

"No, your former squadmates have vouched for you, and I'm well satisfied on that point. Iolo and Karé told me about the _Yissira Zyde_." There's compassion in her tone. "I'm sorry for what that cost you. By all accounts, you had quite the promising career ahead of you with the New Republic Fleet."

"I didn't want it," Poe says shortly. "Not if it meant turning our backs on people who needed our help."

Leia sighs. "It shouldn't have. The Republic we'd all fought so hard for would never have...well. Here we both are." She shakes her head briskly. "But that's neither here nor there. When you and your former squadmates parted ways, they said you went looking for hard evidence of First Order doings. What did you find?"

And so they come to it. Poe feels his ears getting hot, but does his best to keep an even tone. "Precious little. I'm sorry to disappoint you, General -- _Leia_ ," he corrects himself, at her pointed look. "I'm sure you still have highly placed contacts within the Fleet and Senate with more up-to-date intel to share -- I've been kind of, ah, out of the loop lately."

"Actually," Leia says drily, "from what I've heard, you've been running with spicers for the past year, which I find far more useful." At Poe's startled look, she lifts an eyebrow. "Poe, I've known a lot of bureaucrats in my time, and a fair few smugglers, and nine times out of ten, you can guess which have the most accurate on-the-ground information. So get over your embarrassment and fill me in on everything you've learned about how the First Order has been operating in the Outer Rim."

Well, when she puts it like that.

Poe hasn't thought of it that way, but actually, all those months spent dodging both Fleet and First Order patrols alike, mapping out routes around known First Order-controlled territories and smuggling supplies and black market items into and out of blockaded sectors...his intel may not be comprehensive, he may not have the whole picture, but he can certainly fill in a lot of details in areas the Resistance doesn't yet have their own footholds. It energizes him, straightens his spine, lights a fire in his heart that had long been tamped down to bare embers.

It's been a long time since he's felt like he had any _purpose_. Stars above, he's missed it.

Someone brings them food and caff at some point. He barely notices, head bent over a series of star charts, scribbling notations. His pencil falters over the Jinata system; Vardos.

Leia notices his hesitation. "Karé mentioned that you had a personal matter to attend to as well," she says, almost gently. "Something to do with Vardos, wasn't it? Did you find what you'd been searching for there?"

"No." The word feels harsh in his throat. "Nothing left to find, apparently. Just...blurred marks and empty hearts," he says, mostly to himself, remembering the Twi'lek with the smudged mark like a bruise on her purple cheek.

He's rubbing his own arm as he says it, only realizes when he follows Leia's sharp-eyed gaze. He drops his hand, oddly embarrassed. "Sorry," he says. "Just something one of the _Yissira Zyde_ 's passengers said, once. About what the First Order leaves behind."

"Hmm." Leia eyes him shrewdly, though not unkindly. "I realize this can be a delicate topic, Poe, so forgive me for asking, but I'd been told you were Unmarked. Are you…?"

"You were told right." He doesn't hesitate, just rolls up his sleeve so that she can see what little remains of his mark. "Been like this since I was twelve."

She looks it over, face impassive. "I'm sorry, Poe. I'd assumed they meant you'd never had a mark at all." A furrow creases her brow as she looks more closely at his arm. "That's...rather unusual. But I've heard of such things happening before, here and there."

His heart clenches. "Have you? Really?" 

Leia's mouth twists wryly. "I don't have answers for you, I'm afraid. Just know that the Force can react in odd ways, when its will is thwarted. Your own mother, Shara -- did she ever tell you about her mark?"

"She didn't, no. But my papa told me, after mine...blurred."

"She wasn't the only one to lose her mark, not by a long shot," Leia says quietly. "When Alderaan was destroyed -- anyone off-planet who lost their markmate reported the same. A flare of pain, so sharp they thought they'd been burned, and then their marks simply vanished. No scar, like most, or simply fading like others, but just -- nothing. Like they'd never been marked at all. An abomination that even the Force itself could not balance, but simply wiped clean." She shakes her head. "Do you know, a number of them developed new marks, in the following years? Mostly familial in nature, from what I heard, though some of the younger ones found romantic matches. As though the Force sought to make recompense for their loss."

"No," Poe says, fascinated despite himself. "I thought that if your markmate died, then...you know. That was it."

"It's extraordinarily rare, but it does happen that way sometimes. Just as one person may, very occasionally, have more than one mark at once."

Poe has _heard_ of that, though he doesn't know anyone with multiple marks himself. It's a fairly popular subgenre of romantic holovids, though. But someone losing one mark and then later gaining a new one...that, he's never known possible.

Leia shrugs. "The Force moves in mysterious ways sometimes. But there's a great deal more to us than our Forcemarks, Poe. And a great deal more love in our hearts, as well. Take it from an old woman who's loved, deeply, far, far more than just the lonely name marked on her skin."

He's never seen her mark, of course, but he knows the story. Her twin brother, who she'd not met until they were both grown. Rumor has it Luke Skywalker disappeared after his Jedi temple was destroyed, a few years gone now. Poe wonders if Leia knows what became of her markmate, where he'd gone, what he's been doing.

If so, she's not telling. Or maybe she just has more important things to deal with right now.

And so does Poe. He rolls his sleeve back down and returns to his work.

* * *

Leia commissions him into the Resistance at his former Fleet rank of Commander, and gives him his own squadron to command. Black Squadron is much larger than Rapier had been -- a full complement of twelve pilots and their starfighters, mostly X- and Y-Wings. Snap Wexley is his second-in-command, and Karé Kun joins them as well. Iolo Arana has been promoted since joining the Resistance, and he commands his own, smaller Dagger Squadron now. Dagger is used more for the sorts of special ops that Poe had led with Rapier -- he asks, and yeah, Iolo had named them himself, which explains the homage -- while Black Squadron is the Resistance's primary line of defense.

"Don't think you're off the hook, though," Admiral Statura remarks drily. "You'll have plenty of more...specialized missions of your own, Dameron."

It turns out that all of the Resistance leadership know about Poe's stint with the Spice Runners, and moreover, they think the less savory contacts he cultivated in that year are going to come in very useful indeed.

"They know I wasn't, like, some kind of secret agent that whole time, right?" Poe mutters to Iolo, once. "That wasn't an act for me. I really did have that shitty of a year."

"Oh, they know, all right," Iolo replies cheerfully. "That's the whole point. You have the perfect cover now. You genuinely _were_ a smuggler."

At least no one ever tries to send him back to Kijimi itself. As far as Poe's concerned, he's gonna be giving Zorii's planet a wide berth for the rest of his kriffing life.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a mission to Jakku goes awry.

Poe adjusts to paramilitary life more easily than he would have thought possible. It helps that the Resistance is far more casual than the Fleet's rigid regulations and hierarchies; D'Qar feels more like a _community_ than a military base. The planet may lack trade and infrastructure, but it has natural resources in abundance; they grow most of their own food, including a native strain of protein-rich legume to compensate for the lack of fresh meat. The people who make up the Resistance come from a wide variety of planets and backgrounds, and many had been civilians in their previous lives; those with military backgrounds, like Poe's pilots, often brought their families along with them. Two of Karé's brothers are here with their markmates, and are responsible for most of the fresh fish caught from nearby rivers; Commander D'Acy brought along her wife, a former courier pilot, who's now being trained to fly starfighters herself. In fact, just about everyone in the Resistance with a living markmate now works alongside them. There are the Tico sisters, refugees from the First Order-controlled Otomok system, one a gunner and the other a mechanic; a pair of Abednedos, Oddy and his wife Sowa, both clever technicians with a knack for espionage; one of Poe's pilots, Jessika Pava, and her spouse who's a cook...the list goes on and on.

Maybe that's what makes the Resistance seem more like a big, raucous extended family than an army. Maybe that's why Poe feels more at home here on D'Qar than he has anywhere since Yavin.

Life settles into a routine, of a sort, as it is wont to do. Between missions, Poe runs solo drills with his squadron and joint drills with the others; attends logistics and strategy meetings; trains new pilots, both on the starfighters as well as transport craft; performs maintenance on his own X-Wing, Black One, often with BB-8's assistance. He's on the roster for laundry duty and takes his turn at the mess hall -- primarily as a server, since he's always been a mediocre cook at best (with the notable exception of a few dishes native to Yavin IV, but they don't have any of the right spices here, so that's not much help). In his off-hours, he mostly hangs out with the other pilots and their families, or messes around in the hangar with the mechanics. If he needs to clear his head, he takes Black One up to spend hours alone in the air, just him and BB-8 and the endless sky. It's probably a waste of fuel cells, but no one ever chides him for it.

The Resistance is more than happy to let him spread his wings.

The missions themselves run the gamut from hasty solo jaunts, making intel drops, to full-on infiltration or recruitment missions that can last months on end. Those normally involve at least a few other members of his squad. He quickly learns that Jess Pava has a talent for undercover work, able to seamlessly blend in with just about every societal strata, while Oddy Muva is their quickest hacker, and a Duros named L'ampar the best asset for extractions, excelling at close quarters combat. In the air, Snap turns out to be the best second Poe could have ever asked for -- he executes Poe's tactics flawlessly and can be trusted to take over command of any squadron in a heartbeat, knowing when to follow the original plans and when to improvise.

It's definitely not an easy life. There's never enough money for equipment or supplies, they're constantly dancing between wary allies and potential traitors, the New Republic publicly disavows them while the First Order's strength and influence continues to spread insidiously throughout the galaxies. Poe knows he's cheating death with pretty much every mission; every time he and his pilots make it back safely to D'Qar, it's a homecoming.

But it's a _good_ life. He's working hard to an undeniable purpose, shoulder to shoulder with people he's come to love. He'd willingly lay his life down for anyone else in the Resistance, and knows with bone-deep certainty that they would do the same for him.

It's also a war, though no one outside of the Resistance seems willing to acknowledge that, and comes at a cost. Nearly every one of their number has lost someone, or something, to the First Order, or to their own devotion to their cause. Leia herself has a twin who shares her mark, a husband, and a son -- yet none stand with the Resistance now. Poe learns that story in bits and pieces, and almost wishes he hadn't. It's too kriffing depressing, what became of these onetime heroes of the first Rebellion and the broken tatters of the world they'd fought so hard to build.

And as the years go by, and their ranks slowly swell, they also lose a number of their own. One of Poe's first crop of pilots gets unlucky in a dogfight with a handful of TIEs, on one of Black Squadron's earliest missions, and Poe is the one who has to tell his markmate when they straggle back to D'Qar. (He thinks he might understand better, now, why the Fleet preferred to use the Unmarked for special ops; it's wrenching beyond words, to have to look at that awful, raw new scar on someone's skin where the mark once was.) Two years later, a mission goes horribly awry when they're betrayed by a First Order plant, and L'ampar buys the rest of their team the chance to escape with his own life. The Resistance becomes very efficient about organizing funerals.

But they persist, and make a point of celebrating the living as well as the dead.

It doesn't take much of an excuse to throw a party. A mission returns: homecoming party! A new recruit discovers that her mark matches one of the logistics officers: markmate party! Karé's sister-in-law announces her pregnancy: baby shower and also party!

The engineers, predictably, brew the best moonshine. A machinist named Orron with fantastic biceps gives Poe a private tutorial on the distillation process; Poe can't say he'll ever be able to recreate it himself, but he'll never forget the sharp flavor of engine room spirits on Orron's lips. There are others, too, over the years; not so many that Poe develops a bad reputation, and he knows how to pick his partners, avoiding anyone whose marks are romantic in nature. He always gives as good as he gets, and no one's ever had cause for complaint.

He becomes more selective about his teams for the more dangerous missions. He relies on Jess Pava less often, opting for Karé Kun instead; uses C'ai Threnalli (scarred across the shoulder after losing his markmate a few months earlier) to lead airstrikes while keeping Snap in reserve. Not always, not enough to draw attention to it. But he can't help but be aware, every time, of those who still have living marks on their skin.

Maybe Poe had dodged a bullet, when his mark blurred over before he'd ever even met them. It's not something he likes to think too hard about.

* * *

Karé's sister-in-law has her baby, a healthy, beautiful gray-eyed girl; Karé knocks on the door to Poe's quarters very late that night with a half-empty bottle of sunfruit liquor in her hand and badly-concealed terror in her eyes.

"Um," Poe says, running a hand through his sleep-disheveled hair. "I'm going to put pants on."

"Please," she agrees, pushing past him to plop down onto the floor at the foot of his bed. She takes a healthy swig from the bottle. He's seen her put away far worse and still fly straight in the morning, but even so, this doesn't bode well.

He pulls on yesterday's trousers, very grateful that he doesn't sleep completely nude, though she's probably too far gone to notice or care. Then he carefully sits beside her on the floor. "You up for sharing?"

Karé stares blankly at the bottle for a minute, then passes it over. He takes his own swig. Sunfruit is not his favorite, but something tells him he's gonna need it.

"So," he prompts. "Something on your mind, Karé?"

She's quiet for long enough that he wonders if she's gonna say anything at all. Finally, abruptly, she says, "They've named her Lysa."

He isn't all the way awake yet, but he can follow that much. "Your brother and his wife. The baby. Lysa Kun." He considers it. "That's a pretty name."

Karé stares down at her hands. She looks haunted.

"What's going on?" he asks her, gently.

She moves jerkily, tugging at the hem of her shirt, pulling it awkwardly up over her head. For a second, Poe's brain blanks out -- he's known Karé a long while, they're pretty good friends, but he's never gotten any kind of sexual vibe from her and she definitely knows his tastes run to men, this can't possibly be…? But then he sees it, and understands.

Looping script above her breast, right over her heart, like fresh ink: _Lysa Kun_.

"Oh," Poe breathes. "Oh, Karé."

Her eyes are huge and frightened. "What the hell am I supposed to do, Poe? I'm not -- I can't -- I'm _Unmarked_. What the kriff does this mean?"

Poe eases his arm across her shoulders, tugging her in close. "I'm not sure," he murmurs, "but I think it probably means you're gonna make a kriffing _amazing_ auntie."

At that, Karé bursts into tears, gasping out laughs between sobs. Poe lets her, hugging her loosely, feeling the warmth of her smooth skin against his own bare chest. If anyone walked in on them right now, they'd _definitely_ get the wrong idea. But Poe gets it, maybe, in a way few others would. What do you even do with such unlooked-for grace, when you've long since resigned yourself to being alone?

What would he do, if his mark ever un-blurred, resolved itself back into that alien script, that unspoken _name_?

Get drunk and cry a lot, probably, he acknowledges ruefully. He helps himself to more of Karé's liquor.

He won't be able to use her for the worst missions anymore, he thinks, and hates himself a little for even thinking it.

* * *

Poe doesn't know all that much about the Force, apart from its physical manifestation in the Forcemarks on the skin of most sentient species. He's not Force-sensitive himself, and it's always just been a sort of...mystical whatsit. He knows it has an indirect affect on his and everyone else's lives, but you can't trace those patterns or knowingly influence them, so he just kind of ignores it.

Until, of course, he can't anymore.

"Supreme Leader Snoke," he echoes, in a strategy meeting with the other Resistance commanders. "Supreme Leader of _what_ , exactly?"

"The Dark Side, apparently," Ackbar says.

"So he's a Sith Lord?" D'Acy asks.

"Not exactly. Close enough, though."

Leia's eyes have gone cool and distant. "He's dragging at the balance. It grows darker with each passing day. And his apprentices--"

"The Knights of Ren." Why do these people choose the most _ridiculous_ honorifics?

"Don't underestimate their power," Leia says. There's a note in her voice very much like grief. Her family has always been strong in the Force, Poe knows; the revelation of her parentage had caused quite the scandal, some years back, and led to her resignation from the Senate. And now her son…

Well.

"We can still fight them with normal weapons," Statura argues. "If you blast their ships out of the sky, they'll be just as dead, Force or no."

"I wouldn't bet on that," Leia murmurs, and a chill runs down Poe's spine.

There's a lot more debate after that, of course, while Poe keeps quiet. This isn't his purview, and he knows it. But eventually, predictably --

"We need my brother," Leia says. Her tone brooks no further argument. "We need to bring Luke home."

* * *

That's a hell of a lot easier said than done, as it turns out. See, back when Luke Skywalker was a hero of the Rebellion and the first new Jedi in a generation, he'd tried to continue on the tradition and train a new crop of Force-sensitive kids in an effort to rebuild the Jedi Order and restore balance to the Force. It did not go well. Around the same time that Poe was leading Rapier Squadron and becoming increasingly disillusioned with the New Republic Fleet, Luke's most promising padawan was being corrupted from afar by this so-called Supreme Leader, which ended in the destruction of the Temple, the murder of the other Jedis-in-training, and Luke's eventual disappearance.

"He went seeking the first Jedi Temple," Leia explains wearily. It's a smaller group of them in the ready room now: just the General, two admirals, and the four flight squadron leaders. "He hoped he'd find...answers, there. To what, I can't begin to guess. He took the loss of his pupils very hard."

Her eyes grow distant, and she's quiet for a long time. Poe shifts in his chair, not wanting to interrupt her private grief, but also...well, yeah. "So we need to, what, find this mythical Temple and hope he's still there?"

Leia's mouth twists wryly. "Pretty much."

"There were those who aided Master Skywalker in his quest," Ackbar says. "Scholars of ancient Jedi lore, whom he sought out for guidance. Most, unfortunately, are no longer with us."

"You can say it, Ackbar," Leia sighs. "They were murdered. All within the past year, by the First Order. By the Knights of Ren." She turns back to the pilots. "They are also seeking my brother. He's the last Jedi. If he dies, the Jedi Order dies with him. So you see, we're in something of a race against time." She taps on a data pad, bringing up a hologram of an older man. "This is Lor San Tekka. As far as we know, he's the last of Luke's associates still living." Her face softens into a faint smile. "A good friend to both of us, once. He was instrumental in the establishment of the New Republic. But he had no interest in governing, preferring to continue his travels and studies. We have reason to believe he possesses a map to the First Temple -- to Luke."

Statura leans his elbows on the table, regarding the pilots evenly. "This is where you all come in. I want you each to select your best pilot, whomever you trust most to handle covert missions. They'll need to operate completely solo once they leave D'Qar. We've narrowed down Lor San Tekka's current location to four possibilities, and we don't have much time. Wherever he is, we have to beat the First Order to him, and moreover, we need to avoid alerting them to his trail."

Poe and Iolo exchange glances with the other two squadron leaders, Tallie Lintra and Sara Bel-Sun. As ranking commander, Poe is technically in charge of all four squadrons, and he has a pretty good idea which of their pilots each will pick. As for himself…

"Which do we think is the most likely possibility?" he asks. "Of the four, I mean."

Leia meets his eyes. He would bet good money that she knows precisely what he's thinking. "Jakku," she tells him. "There's a settlement there called Tuanul, a spiritual home of the Church of the Force. San Tekka has sojourned there many times over the years, though few outside of his closest associates know of it. That's where I believe he would have gone to ground, especially if he heard the First Order was seeking him."

Poe lets out a low whistle. "Jakku, huh? The last stand of the Galactic Empire? Well, I have to admit, I've always been curious about that rock."

From the nod of Ackbar's head and satisfied expression on Statura's normally impassive face, neither of them are surprised that Poe's volunteering for this. Only Leia looks more resigned than pleased. To the other pilots, she says, "I'll want your recommendations by dawn tomorrow. Admirals, please give them a full rundown on the other three locations." She gets to her feet, crooking a finger at Poe. "Commander Dameron, a word?"

Once they're in her private quarters, Poe wastes no time making his argument. "General, we both know that I'm the best pilot in the Resistance, it would be downright irresponsible for me to send anyone else to Jakku in my place, and I've got more experience in covert ops than--"

"I know," she says tiredly, plopping down into a well-cushioned chair. "We all know that, Poe. Frankly, I would've sent you straight to medical for a psych eval if you _hadn't_ volunteered yourself. I just want to be sure you understand the risks. If anything goes wrong, you'll be very alone out there."

His hands come to rest on his hips. "Leia, every time I get into that cockpit, it might be my last flight. I'm a fighter pilot. Most of us fly hard and die young, _especially_ when we're Unmarked, I've got no illusions here. The Resistance is what I've chosen to fight for. So let me."

She just looks at him for a long moment. "Sometimes you remind me so much of your mother," she says quietly. "You've already outlived her, you know."

That's a punch to the gut he wasn't expecting. He's never consciously done the math on it, but she's right. He's thirty-two. Shara had been a full year younger when she died.

He swallows hard. "Yeah, well, I gotta keep her legacy alive, right?" He shakes his head to clear it. "I have no intention of dying for a _map_ , General. And you know I've got a better shot of accomplishing this mission than just about anyone else. If Lor San Tekka is on Jakku, I'll find him, and I'll come back."

Leia leans forward to clasp his arm, hard, right over his blurred mark. It stings under the fabric of his shirt like a bruise. "You'd better, Poe Dameron," she says. "And you can consider that an order."

* * *

There's a moment, on the Finalizer, strapped in restraints with blood trickling through his matted hair, when he thinks with shocking clarity that that might turn out to be the first and last of Leia's orders he'll ever disobey.

He'd sat through a handful of lectures on how to resist interrogation, back in the Fleet. Basically, they'd boiled down to this: pain sucks, but on the plus side, it's extraordinarily unreliable as a method of extracting accurate information. People in pain will say just about anything to make it stop, and it's well nigh impossible to sort truth from fiction under those circumstances. If your enemies are dumb enough to torture you, you should talk as much as you damn well want. Tell them whatever you think they want to hear, or whatever keeps you even remotely sane. Repeat it loudly and often. Don't worry about keeping your story straight; just lie about everything and anything. Even if you accidentally let slip some true factoids in amongst all the nonsense, it's not like they'll be able to tell the difference.

There's a darker truth underlying that advice, which is this: accept the fact of your own death. Nothing you say will prevent it. If your torturers tell you otherwise, they're lying, so you may as well lie right back at them.

And Poe's always been good at running off at the mouth.

He knows no one's coming for him. He doesn't have the data chip containing the map to Skywalker, hasn't even seen the map itself, so it's not like there's anything for him to give away -- except BB-8's existence, which he'll never reveal. The little droid would have run far and fast, on Jakku, and they're clever. They'll wait for Poe as long as is reasonable, but will know when to cut their losses and find a way back to D'Qar. No one pays much attention to droids. They'll be fine.

He hopes he won't have to break his promise to BB-8, but man, it ain't looking too great.

Then Kylo Ren shows up. And, well, the less said about that part, the better.

* * *

He loses all track of time, still caught in the semi-waking nightmare that Ren had left tangled in his head. When yet another faceless trooper enters their little torture chamber, it barely even registers. Then the restraints clamping him to the...whatever that device was, anyway, are released. His wrists are slapped into a pair of manacles and the new Stormtrooper leads him away with an iron grip on his arm and a blaster's muzzle shoved against his chest. It's all Poe can do to walk under his own power at that point. He's dimly aware that this is probably the beginning of the end, for him. Kylo Ren already got what he wanted out of him. Poe holds little further use to the First Order.

"Turn here," the trooper orders, and Poe stumbles vaguely in the indicated direction. He's not so much obeying the order as allowing himself to be dragged, really.

Weirdly, though, that leads them into a sort of -- alcove? Supply closet? It doesn't make any sense. The sheer incongruity of it kicks Poe's brain back into gear, clearing his head a little, sharpening his focus. Something's not right, and in a different way than the rest of this miserable little adventure. "Listen carefully," the trooper goes on, and his voice has lost some of that tinned anonymity. There's something _human_ there, urgent and real. "If you do exactly as I say, I can get you out of here."

"What," Poe says blankly.

And then the Stormtrooper does something utterly, shockingly unexpected.

He takes off his helmet.

* * *

There's a story of the old Rebellion that Poe grew up hearing, of the first time Luke Skywalker and then-Princess Leia Organa had met. She'd been a prisoner on the original Death Star. Led there by the legendary Jedi Obi-Wan Kenobi, Skywalker and Han Solo had disguised themselves as Stormtroopers in order to infiltrate the battlestation. It was Skywalker who found the princess's cell. She looked up to see yet another Stormtrooper, but different than the others. This one removed his helmet and introduced himself -- and that was the first time she heard the name on her mark spoken aloud.

It was a very romantic story, the way Poe originally heard it, although of course theirs turned out to be a familial mark. He asked Leia about it, once, during one of the many parties on D'Qar. "It's frankly miraculous that he succeeded at all," she said drily. "Nineteen years old, a farm boy from the middle of nowhere drunk on hero's tales. He didn't have the faintest idea what he was doing. They wound up on the Death Star by _accident_ , would you believe it? And I was so dumbfounded at hearing his name that I was less than usually useful for a few minutes there myself."

Still, Poe always liked that story.

_I'm Luke Skywalker, I'm here to rescue you!_

"This is a rescue," the now-bareheaded Stormtrooper informs Poe breathlessly. His rich brown skin is damp with sweat, dark eyes meeting Poe's. He looks young and maybe even a little frightened, and to Poe's dismay, he's very, _very_ attractive. "I'm helping you escape. Can you fly a TIE fighter?"

Poe scrambles to keep up with this strange new turn of events. Feeling a strong sense of deja-vu and more than a little dumbfounded himself, all he can manage to say is -- "You're with the Resistance?"

Because that's the only thing that would make sense, right? This must be a rescue mission. Leia sent people to retrieve him. Sure, it's a lot quicker than he ever would have anticipated, but what other explanation could there be?

The trooper pulls a face. "What? No, no, no, I'm breaking you out. _Can you fly a TIE fighter_?"

Okay, so not Resistance. But Poe's not about to look a gift fathier in the mouth. He's always itched to give one of those TIEs a try, anyway.

"I can fly anything," he says. And for just a moment, one side of the trooper's mouth quirks into a half-grin. It's like briefly catching sight of the sun between the clouds on a stormy day, or the first glimpse of stars shining against the endless sky after you've taken flight. It's that damn bright.

In spite of everything -- his pain-stiffened body, the dried blood itching on the side of his face, the way his brain feels like it's been scraped out by invisible claws and then dumped unceremoniously back into his skull; not to mention the absolute impossibility of the task before him, stealing a kriffing TIE from under the noses of an entire Star Destroyer -- in spite of all that, Poe smiles back.

* * *

He wakes up alone in the desert night with a wrenched shoulder, an absolute bastard of a headache, and no idea where he is or how he got there. Also, it's kriffing _freezing_.

The shock of cold slaps his higher mental functions into gear, and with that comes the rush of memory returning: the beautiful stormtrooper who needed a pilot, the stolen TIE fighter, breaking free of that damn tether to leap out into space, the strange controls quickly becoming as dear and familiar as an ex-lover under Poe's hands, the heady scents of engine oil and leather and sweat in the enclosed cockpit, the young trooper's excited voice as he gets the hang of the TIE's weapons system--

_Hey, what's your name?_

_FN-2187. That's the only name they ever gave me._

_Well, I ain't using it. F-N, huh? Finn. I'm gonna call you Finn. Is that all right?_

And Poe could hear that grin in Finn's voice as the ex-trooper repeated his new name.

Jakku. They'd crashed on Jakku. The TIE had been hit just as they entered atmo, the blast hitting it directly in one wing, and he'd just barely had the wherewithal to slam his hand on the eject button -- which should have ejected both pilot and gunner--

"Finn!" he yells, struggling to free himself from the parachute that had saved him. " _Finn!_ Buddy, you out there?"

The desert is vast and empty in the clear starlight. Poe's head reels as he staggers to his feet -- he's not sure if he conked it at some point during the crash, or if these are just lingering aftereffects of the whole torture thing. Had it been nighttime in this hemisphere when they hit atmo? He's pretty sure he remembers bright sunlight against yellow sand. How long has he been lying here unconscious?

There's no sign of the TIE fighter, or the second parachute. They'd been pretty high up when they'd ejected, could've drifted a fair distance before coming to earth. But how far? And in what direction? Slowly, stiffly, Poe makes his way up to the top of the nearest dune. But there's nothing but sand, as far as the eye can see.

Poe hugs himself against the cold, wondering for the first time where the hell his jacket ended up. He dimly remembers shrugging it off as soon as he'd dropped down into the TIE. He'd been overheated with nerves, and had wanted more freedom of movement in the unfamiliar cockpit. Like as not, the jacket's still stuck in the wreckage of the TIE. Wherever _that_ is.

He yells Finn's name again, just because, but only hears the faint echoes of his own voice rebounding back at him. Well, he can't find the ship, either, and it's been hours since the crash -- Finn could've landed kilometers away. For all Poe knows, Finn's been wandering around the desert looking for _him_.

He won't let himself dwell on the possibility -- _probability_ , really -- that Finn died in the crash. That would just be too unfair. To have gone through all that, so young and brave and beautiful, managing to break free of whatever horrific Stormtrooper conditioning enough to _escape_ , to help _Poe_ escape, only to die in some alien desert within minutes of finally gaining a name…

Nope. Poe, who has good reason to believe in the fundamental unfairness of a vast and uncaring universe, refuses to accept that.

So, he thinks, looking out over the bleak, cold sands. New mission: survive a night in the desert, make his way to something resembling civilization. Then he just needs to somehow track down three things: transport off this rock, BB-8, and Finn.

Easy.

* * *

It's damn lucky that Poe is a pilot and a navigator. He'd programmed in the coordinates for Tuanul, since those were the only ones he'd known, and glimpsed the smudge of the settlement far below them just before the TIE had been hit. There's no way to judge just how far off-course he'd been dragged by the parachute, but it's a start, at least. And when he'd first arrived to seek out Lor San Tekka, it had been nighttime, too. Mapping out the stars above him was a deeply ingrained habit -- if anything goes wrong with your ship's nav systems, knowing the stars is a pilot's best chance at finding refuge. Jakku has a few uniquely bright constellations, and it's only been, what, two solar cycles since he was captured? Three? No more than that. Close enough to use his memory as a guide.

Putting the brightest star cluster at his right shoulder, the constellation that looks like an unfurling day-lily, he does his best to make a direct path across the sands.

He keeps a sharp eye out for any sign of the ship's wreckage as he walks, with no luck, although he does spot what looks like the hulking remains of an ancient Imperial star destroyer at one point. His shoulder continues to ache, but he can walk well enough, and the movement warms him up a little. It's not actually freezing -- Jakku is a _hot_ planet by day, and though the temperature certainly drops at night, there's still some residual warmth in the sands. He sure wishes he'd kept his jacket on in the TIE, though.

And just before sunrise, as the sky is lightening to the bluish-gray of false dawn, he crests the top of a dune to see some kind of settlement nestled into the valley below him. It's not Tuanul, but he'll take what he can get.

When he gets closer, he can see that the place is a mess. There are tents knocked over, goods scattered across the sands, and a couple of new craters that are still smoking a bit. First   
Order has definitely been here, he thinks grimly. But not too recently -- people are already moving about in the early morning light, trudging about the slow process of setting things to rights. It's a new day; this probably happened sometime yesterday. Poe really wishes he knew how much time he'd lost, lying unconscious in the sands. He's lucky that the parachute had come to rest on top of him, shielding him from the worst of the sun during that day.

After a few discreet conversations with the locals, he learns that Stormtroopers had landed the previous afternoon, chasing after some kind of droid and not caring what else got in the way. His heart leaps the first time they mention the droid -- it's BB-8, it _has_ to be -- but he's careful not to let his eagerness show, or ask any specific questions.

"Did they catch it?" he asks, with the sort of casual curiosity any passerby might have.

No one knows for sure, but the droid had last been seen in the company of one of the local scavengers -- a girl, human, that's all the description he gets -- who'd stolen one of Unkar's junker ships and blasted off with a few TIEs hot in their wake.

So: either they got shot down and captured, in which case there's precious little Poe can do for them on his own, or they escaped. And BB-8's plenty smart. They'll figure out a way to contact the Resistance. Either way, there's no point sticking around Jakku. The best thing Poe can do for the Resistance now is make his way back to D'Qar, and formulate a plan from there.

Except -- Finn.

One of the locals is a chatty Abednedo, and Poe does ask her a few additional questions. He claims his ship malfunctioned and he's looking for replacement parts, but also, he got separated from his co-pilot in the crash -- another human, male, dark brown skin and short black hair, don't suppose he passed this way…?

The Abednedo is doubtful. She doesn't remember any newcomers before the Stormtroopers descended. But she can't be sure, of course -- there was a lot of chaos yesterday. Hey, Amil, do you remember seeing any other strangers in town before the to-do?

Amil remembers someone getting into a squawk with Jundakk over a bad trade, but no, that human had pale hair, and was much older. No one has any particular memory of someone matching Finn's description. But there are always travellers passing through, if he hadn't caused trouble he likely wouldn't have made much of an impression, and plenty of people are giving the trading post a wide berth after the incident yesterday, so maybe someone did see him or trade with him but aren't here now to tell of it.

Poe thanks them both, resigned. It's likely Finn was never here at all. He could have struck out in any direction after the crash, ended up somewhere else entirely.

_He might never have walked away from the crash at all,_ a dark corner of Poe's brain whispers, but he won't think about that, he _won't_. 

He also won't let himself wonder why this is so kriffing important to him. It's just because the man had rescued him, right? Because they'd fallen into such easy, natural comradeship, bound together by their common goal and the urgent desperation of their escape. Because of the warm tenor of his laugh, the brightness of his smile, and the instantaneous _kinship_ Poe had inexplicably felt when he looked at him.

Because Poe had given Finn a _name_ , at least for a little while, and that meant he was...responsible for him, in a way. That's all.

But the reality of the situation is: Poe can't spend the next few days roaming across the deserts of Jakku in search of Finn, no matter how much he might want to. He's a soldier in a war, and his first responsibility always has to be to the Resistance. His mission here hadn't been a complete failure -- BB-8 has the map to Skywalker, and hopefully remains a free droid, out of the First Order's clutches. Poe's job now is to get his ass back to base before they all decide he's dead (or waste personnel, time, and resources staging some kind of rescue mission), and from there, to do what he can to help find BB-8 and bring them safely home.

And as for Finn...well, may the Force be with him, always. Poe can only pray that he's alive and well, somewhere, and hope that their paths cross again someday.

He waits until midday, when the sun is at its zenith and all the locals retreat to the shade of their dwellings to wait out the worst of the day's heat, and then steals one of Unkar's remaining junker ships and sets a course for the Ileenium system.

* * *

By the time he manages to get the junker to D'Qar, Poe is running on fumes in more ways than one. He'd scrounged for water and a protein bar in the Jakku trading outpost, but that's all he's had to eat since escaping the Finalizer. In between bouts of torture, the Stormtroopers had at least given him water and some kind of oatmeal-like sludge, but still, it wasn't much. He also hasn't really slept in the past few days, unless you count his being knocked unconscious for however many hours during the crash. The junker's even less suitable for long-haul flights than an X-Wing -- certainly there's no 'fresher onboard -- and after being stuck in the cockpit for close to sixteen hours of hard flying, Poe can definitely smell himself, and it ain't pleasant.

Somehow, though, he makes it to D'Qar without further incident. It's pretty late at night when he gets in, and Snap Wexley comes near to shooting the junker out of the sky before Poe can convince the ancient comms to pick up the right encrypted frequency and hail him properly, but he lands safely and more or less falls out of the cockpit into the waiting arms of Snap and Karé. They raise an unholy amount of fuss over him but do manage to convey him upright to the General for the world's shortest debriefing before _she_ hustles him directly to Medical.

He's fine, as he insists to Dr. Kalonia and her army of med-droids -- just exhausted, slightly dehydrated, and he would absolutely kill for a real shower. She looks at the dried blood in his hair and electrical burns at his temples and gives him a deeply unimpressed look, but she also notices the way he flinches away from her gentle touch, and doesn't press the matter further. The wrenched shoulder is still sore, but nothing's broken and there really isn't all that much she can do for him right now, so she reluctantly permits him to return to his own quarters.

As commander of their fighter squadrons, Poe's room comes with its own small, private 'fresher, for which he is now extremely grateful. Now that he knows he's safe, he can barely keep his eyes open, but he wasn't kidding about needing to get clean. He strips off his filthy clothing and staggers into the shower, turning the water up as hot as he can bear and just kind of...standing there, for a while. It feels _amazing_ , even though it stings a bit on a few cuts and bruises he hadn't known he even had. Eventually, he manages to blindly run some soap over himself and scrub at his hair a bit, then stumbles out, towels down haphazardly, and falls directly onto his bed to sleep for about twelve hours straight.

He wakes with a jolt, heart racing, and for a few long, panicked moments can't remember where he is. The remnants of his nightmare are already fading -- it involved Kylo Ren, that awful black mask, greedy claws scrabbling about through his ugliest memories -- but he's pretty sure it won't be the last time he dreams of his captivity. Well, it's hardly his first nightmare. He'll deal with them as they come.

For a little while, he just lies there in bed, breathing deeply and letting his muscles relax. He'd fallen asleep buck naked on top of his blanket, but at some point in the night, he must have rolled around enough to pull it over himself. It rasps a little against his bare skin. He aches dully all over, but there's no sharp pain anywhere -- he wiggles around a bit to make sure -- so he can probably avoid another trip to Medical. He likes Dr. Kalonia well enough, but he really doesn't want anyone poking at him anytime soon. He got plenty of that on the Finalizer, thanks.

He should probably get up and report to Leia for a _real_ debriefing. It takes pretty much all his willpower to force himself to sit upright, and then he just kind of stares down at his knees for a few minutes before he can muster the energy to stand. He could easily sleep for another twelve hours.

Finally, he drags himself to the drawers where he keeps his clean clothing, and gets dressed, working his way up from the bottom. It's not until he's reaching out for a T-shirt that he notices.

His arm.

His _mark_.

It's not a smudge anymore, though the edges of the letters are still a little bit blurred. But they are _letters_ , unmistakably, and not the swirling alien script that once had been there. Recognizable Galactic Basic alphabet, all capitals, nestled into the crook of his elbow, spelling out a simple name:

**FINN**.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Poe tries to wrap his head around the impossible new mark on his skin -- and also, there's a new Death Star in town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've caught up to myself in terms of writing, so might be a little slower to update (like, y'know, this chapter). Thanks again to Cinnamongirl for the beta!

Poe moves through the rest of that day in a daze. No one calls him on it, so it must not be too obvious, or maybe they're all just chalking it up to aftereffects of the whole torture thing. Whatever works.

He gets cloistered into a room with the other commanders and the General for a couple of hours for the full mission debrief, heavy on intel and light on personal details, and then again alone with just Leia, going over the more...sensitive elements. She's kind but thorough, handling it all with a matter-of-fact sympathy that reminds him, distantly, that she herself had been a prisoner of war in the past.

He doesn't know how the hell to describe what Kylo Ren had done to his mind, but she'd been interrogated by Darth Vader once.

"There's not a great deal of accuracy in that sort of...questioning," she says gently. "The Force can be used to compel, and those with sufficient power and training can discern one's innermost thoughts and feelings, but it's not like reading an intelligence report. Ben -- ah, Kylo Ren will have gotten images, flashes of memory, mixed up with a whole lot of painful garbage he'd have difficulty discerning. For you, I imagine it felt like reliving all of your worst memories and nightmares. And pain." Her gaze goes distant. After a moment, she shakes her head as though to clear it. "But there's no coherent narrative in it. At worst, he'll have seen a fairly clear image of BB-8, and the general knowledge that you left them behind on Jakku. A starting point, that's all, and from what you've told us, it sounds like the droid managed to escape the planet." She sighs, expression somber. "But my primary concern now is for the safety of this base. Do you think he might have gleaned anything about D'Qar from your mind?"

Poe shrugs helplessly. "I don't know. I was so focused on BB-8, on the mission -- I wasn't really thinking about anything beyond that. The other shit he unearthed, though...." He gives her a bitter smile. "Well, on the plus side, I don't really associate D'Qar with any of my ugliest memories. If that's what Ren's going by, he'll likely think the Resistance is based out of Kijimi, and he's more than welcome to _that_ rock."

"Let's hope so," Leia murmurs. "But we can't afford to assume the best. Well, we never expected to remain tucked away in the Ileenium system forever; I'll have D'Acy begin to look into alternative bases for the Resistance fleet. If nothing else, we can rotate out for a few months or so, just to be safe."

Poe nods, his own failure tasting like ash in his mouth. "Leia, I'm so sorry."

"Don't be," she says, laying her hand over his. "Poe, nothing that happened to you was your fault in any way, and _I'm_ sorry, so very sorry, that you had to go through that." Her brown eyes are warm. "I meant to ask, before -- did he have a name? The Stormtrooper who helped you escape?"

Dark block letters inscribed in the crook of his elbow, stark and shocking, practically searing through the fabric of his shirt. "Finn," Poe says. "His name was -- _is_ Finn."

And all at once he feels a staggering rush of relief, so intense that if he wasn't already sitting he might have fallen to his knees, and feels a little lightheaded with it. Because whatever else this means, this mad, impossible mark suddenly appearing on his skin, it means this: _Finn survived the crash._

He's still alive, somewhere out there in the galaxy. _Alive_. Even if Poe never finds him again, everything that happened would have been worth it, just for that knowledge.

* * *

Once Leia's done with him, it's late enough that he has to hustle to get to the mess before the cooks leave, and swallows down whatever they put on his tray without thinking much about it. His arm _throbs_ , and even though he knows that's probably all in his head, it's somehow inconceivable to him that no one else might notice. A few of his pilots stop by the mess to clap him on the back and express how happy they are that he made it back, and he must respond appropriately, because no one presses further or gives him weird looks. Karé and Snap linger the longest, mostly to reassure themselves that he's okay. He must pass muster.

He doesn't remember a word he or anyone else says.

He curls up on his bed in the darkness staring at the mark on his arm until his vision blurs over and he wakes up in the same exact position he'd fallen asleep in.

That morning, he spends a few hours in the hangar working over the new X-Wing he's been assigned -- one of the training planes, he's already familiar with most of its quirks, but the work is repetitive and soothing. It's warm in the hangar. He doesn't roll up his shirtsleeves.

Then the transmission comes in. BB-8 has been spotted in Takodana Castle, of all places. And along with the message is a warning that it's likely the First Order has spies in the castle as well, so if they want to beat the Stormtroopers to their droid, they'll have to get a move on.

It's only a couple hours' hyperspace jaunt to Takodana, and Poe scrambles all of Black Squadron into the air. The General and a number of her aides will follow in a small transport. "It's been a while since I touched base with Maz," she says, when asked, but there's a shadow in her eyes, and Poe wonders if there was more to the transmission that she's not telling them.

They emerge off the nearest hyperspace route just in time to hear about the attack on the Hosnian system.

No, _attack_ is the wrong word. Massacre. Genocide.

In later years, it will be referred to as the Hosnian Cataclysm. Then, though, they don't even know the full scale of the destruction. They don't know that five whole planets had been wiped out in the blink of an eye, including the entire Galactic Senate and the majority of the New Republic Fleet.

(Leia did, though, as Lieutenant Connix will tell Poe later. They'd still been in hyperspace when it happened. Leia had gone deathly pale, bowing her head, tears streaming down her cheeks.) 

All they know is that something truly, unspeakably horrible has happened -- _blurred marks and empty hearts_ , Poe thinks, and remembers Leia's words, _like they'd never been marked at all_ \-- but they have to shove that knowledge aside and deal with the matter at hand.

Fortunately, the matter at hand involves a full-on dogfight with a whole mess of TIEs, and Poe is more than happy to do his part blasting those suckers out of the skies. He imagines that every pilot is one of the grunts who'd so inexpertly tortured him in those first hours or days before Ren stepped in.

(He doesn't let himself imagine that each is also a person with the potential of defecting from the First Order, like Finn. With hidden scraps of conscience just waiting for the right spark to awaken.)

They clear the First Order off of Takodana, and Poe and his squadron remain in the air patrolling, just to be sure, while Leia's transport lands and the higher-ups take care of business with Maz. He desperately wants to see BB-8 with his own eyes, make sure the droid is here and safe, but he'll have to make do with what he hears over the comms for now. It's not long before they're all en route back to D'Qar.

He's just hopped out of his X-Wing, chatting with one of the mechanics, when he hears a familiar series of beeps and looks down to see BB-8 rolling excitedly toward him. The sight is a weight off his chest he hadn't even realized he'd been carrying. BB-8 trills at him, Binary so rapid Poe can barely pick the words out -- something about their new friends and a...jacket thief? That doesn't make sense -- but he _saved_ them and completed the mission, and Poe's still trying to sort this out -- "Who saved you? Where is he?"

And he looks up--

It feels like taking flight for the very first time: that thrilling, swooping sensation in his guts. Poe's upright and running towards him before he consciously realizes what's happening.

"Poe!" Finn yells. "Poe Dameron, you're alive?"

Poe thinks he says something in response, but who the hell even knows, because Finn is in his arms, warm and solid and _here_. When he forces himself to let go, if only to look at Finn properly, Finn is slower to pull away. His eyes are wide and disbelieving, and his hands trail across Poe's shoulders, down his arms, as though trying to prove to himself that Poe is real.

One hand catches at the crook of Poe's elbow, lingering precisely where the freshly darkened mark is concealed beneath his sleeve.

Poe has no frame of reference for this. Even through the thick fabric of the flight suit, it's like grasping a live wire, that jolt of electricity. His new mark feels like it's burning through his sleeve, but in a _good_ way, if that makes any sense. (It doesn't.)

"What happened to you?" Finn demands.

It is an active struggle for Poe to focus on the question, on the open, wondering face in front of his own. Somehow he manages to respond, to carry on something resembling a normal conversation -- or, well, as normal as can be expected, given the circumstances (because even disregarding the matter of Forcemarks, it's not like you come back from the dead every day). He manages to extricate himself from Finn's grasp at some point, which helps a little, but his blood still sparks through his veins and his head buzzes and he kind of feels like he's crawling out of his own skin. Finn's intent gaze is pretty much the only thing grounding him right now.

And Poe's old jacket looks unfairly good on him.

When Finn asks for his help rescuing the scavenger girl who'd gotten him and BB-8 off Jakku, Poe grants it unhesitatingly. How could he not?

* * *

About five minutes into Finn's debrief with the General, she holds up a hand to stop him talking and sends her personal aide, Connix, to fetch as many high-ranking officers as she can track down in ten minutes or less. Poe does a quick circuit of the base to rope his fellow squadron commanders into the group as well. This goes well beyond a quick rescue mission. Finn's intel on the First Order's battlestation is kriffing _encyclopedic_. They might actually stand a shot at bringing the whole thing down.

Which is good, because given what just happened to the Hosnian System, the fate of the galaxy might literally depend on them. It's not that Poe didn't hate the First Order before, or didn't believe wholeheartedly in the cause of the Resistance. It's just that the big picture has always been a bit...abstract. Poe does better with what he can see right in front of his face. See bad people doing bad things, stop them. See TIE fighter, shoot it out of the sky. The whole "fighting systemic injustice" aspect of it is far less tangible to him. But now, with this new Death Star having destroyed an entire planetary system, the stakes are feeling very, very real.

 _Blurred marks and empty hearts_ doesn't even begin to cover it.

Finn makes his report in a clipped, direct tone. If he feels any hesitation at betraying his former allegiance, there's no indication on his face. Glancing around the room, Poe can see that several of the others regard him with mistrust -- though not as many as he would have feared.

"What rank did you hold with the First Order, again?" Statura does ask at one point.

The faintest furrow appears between Finn's brows. "I was a Stormtrooper."

"Yes, but of what _rank_?"

Finn blinks at him. "We didn't really... I mean, I wasn't an officer, obviously. Jakku was my first combat action." When that clearly isn't the answer Statura was looking for, Finn huffs out an exasperated breath. "Rank is for officers. I was just a trooper. I don't know what you want me to say, here."

Just a trooper. Anonymous, interchangeable. Expendable.

"So you're telling me that a mere trooper -- functionally, I suppose, a private, an enlisted man -- was permitted access to this breadth and depth of knowledge on the internal workings of the First Order's most valuable and _secret_ base?" Though Statura has remained otherwise impassive throughout this debrief, even he can't keep the skepticism from leaking into his tone now. Other people are nodding, openly suspicious, as though having been granted permission.

Poe kind of wants to punch Statura in the face. It's an unfair reaction, he knows -- Statura's question is a reasonable one. Hell, under other circumstances, Poe himself would likely have the same doubts.

But this is _Finn_ they're doubting. And Poe is starting to realize that he'll never be able to be entirely rational when it comes to Finn. He's not quite sure how he feels about that yet.

Finn squares his shoulder to meet the attack, taking a deep breath. "And who do you think keeps a base like that _running_ , sir?" he demands. "I'm not talking about giving the orders to fire the weapon, or the precise mechanics of it, or anything like that. I'm talking about _maintenance_. Keeping the lights on and the floors cleaned and the electric circuitry operational on every inch of that planetary base. You think officers are gonna dirty their hands with that? I can't tell you what's going on in Kylo Ren's head. I can't build that weapon myself, I'm not an engineer. I didn't know that they were ready to blow up a star system or what their first target was, and I don't know what the next one will be. But I damn well know the layout of every single level of the base, how the guard rotations are scheduled and what their routes are, how the weapon is powered and where all the power stations are located and what elements are controlled from where, because I was a Stormtrooper and all that shit was literally our job!"

The silence that follows this outburst is profound, until Poe deliberately breaks it with a quiet but unmistakable, "So there."

Connix stifles her giggle into a cough. Finn looks over to meet Poe's eyes, and the corners of his mouth twitch into a faint smile.

"We will of course send a pilot out on reconnaissance to the coordinates Finn has given us," Leia says calmly, only the faintest gleam in her eyes betraying her amusement. "Commander Dameron, your recommendation?"

Poe doesn't even have to consider it, just glancing over at Snap for a quick nod of confirmation before volunteering his second. "Wexley can take this one." It's a high stakes mission, but relatively straightforward -- they've got the precise coordinates of the planetary base, so Snap just needs to hop over, take a few quick scans from as far out as possible, and then jump back into hyperspace before anyone notices he's there. But that last bit's the tricky part. Still, Snap is eminently capable, and he's not the sort to take unnecessary risks. And if they're gonna mount any kind of direct attack on this Starkiller base, Poe himself needs to remain on D'Qar to prep for the assault with his squadron leaders.

"Good." Leia turns back to Statura. "Does this satisfy you, Admiral?"

Statura nods stiffly, Snap heads out to prep his X-Wing, and the debrief morphs into a full on strategy and logistics session. Eventually Poe excuses himself to head up to the hangar, where he gives the flight mechanics a quick rundown of the situation and instructions to get the full fleet flight-ready, likely within a day. Half their starfighters had seen action at Takodana and were still being worked over. Poe, who doesn't mind getting his hands dirty, is up to his elbows in engine grease under his own X-Wing before long.

He's not sure how much time has passed before Tallie taps him out. "I'll take it from here," she tells him, fondly amused. "You've been up for at least twenty hours straight at this point, and Blue Squadron sat out Takodana. I think I can manage the overnight shift."

Poe jumps to his feet in protest, then has to stop and brace himself on the hull for a minute until his head stops spinning. So maybe she's got a point there. The fact that he hasn't eaten since breakfast probably doesn't help, but now that he's realizing how tired he is, he really doesn't care.

He makes his way back down into the command center in search of Finn. Leia is apparently in the process of dismissing the remainder of her team. "We've all had a long, trying day," she's saying. "And there's no time yet to mourn the galaxy's immeasurable loss. Get some rest while you can, because I imagine we have a few more long and difficult days ahead of us." She turns to Connix. "Kaydel, could you find an empty room for Finn?"

"I'll take him," Poe says at once, stepping forward. Finn just blinks at him. He's starting to look a little gray around the edges himself. "We'll figure something out."

Connix arches a brow at him -- her resemblance to Leia is uncanny sometimes, must be all the time she spends watching the General -- but Leia herself doesn't seem the least bit surprised. "That's fine."

Poe takes Finn by the arm and steers him out of the command center, leading him into the labyrinthine tunnels that make up the bulk of the underground base. "You really don't need to," Finn says, though it's clearly a token protest. Now that no one else's eyes are on him, he's practically staggering with exhaustion. "I'm sure Solo would let me bunk on the Falcon--"

"I'm sure he would," Poe agrees easily. "But my room's closer and probably more comfortable. And definitely more private."

Belatedly, he winces, realizing how that might sound. This is definitely not the time for bad pick up lines, unintentional or not. But luckily Finn doesn't seem to notice. His focus is primarily on putting one foot in front of the other at this point.

They reach Poe's room without incident. Poe quickly taps out the door code to let them in. "I'll give you the code when you're awake enough to remember it," he remarks, pushing the door open. "Though I'm sure we'll be able to find you your own quarters by then, if you want."

Finn blinks around the room, brows furrowing. "This is -- wait, this is your room? Just yours?"

"Yup," Poe says. "There's a private 'fresher in the back, if you need it. Perk of being a commander."

"But I mean -- you get a whole room? All to yourself?" Finn's eyes are wide. He looks a little lost. "That...doesn't seem like an efficient use of space."

Poe considers it, careful not to dismiss Finn out of hand. Clearly the First Order has different priorities when it comes to their personnel. "Maybe not, but this base is dug in pretty deep and there's room to grow, so that's not a huge concern. And the morale boost we get from having a little space to call our own is worth the compromise in, um, efficiency."

" _Everyone_ has their own room?"

"Not everyone," Poe allows. "Not all species -- or individuals -- value privacy, there are a couple of larger barracks carved out for those that prefer communal living. And of course married couples or markmates generally prefer to share a room."

It's only after he says it that he remembers his own fresh mark, the word newly branded on his skin. It's all he can do to refrain from slapping his hand over his arm to cover it -- which is ridiculous, anyway, it's still hidden beneath his flight suit.

For now. Oh, hell, he really did just offer to share a bedroom with Finn, didn't he? Well, Finn hasn't brought up the little matter of their shared mark yet -- and in fairness, neither has Poe. They've kind of had more pressing concerns.

Finn's frowning a little, but he doesn't press the issue further. He slowly sits at the edge of the bed. "If you say so. I think I'm probably gonna pass out now, if that's okay."

"Go for it," Poe says softly. "I'm gonna hop in the 'fresher for a minute, I'll be right back."

Finn nods, occupied with laboriously tugging off his boots.

In the 'fresher, the door firmly shut behind him, Poe splashes water on his face and briefly considers having some kind of minor breakdown, just to get it out of the way now. It has been a _hell_ of a day, and he hasn't fully recovered from the Finalizer, the crash, and his trek across Jakku, either. And he still hasn't figured out what the hell to do about the fact that the man whose name is marked in dark, bold print on his arm is currently here, with him. In his _bed_.

Poe is too tired to deal with any of this right now, he decides. He strips down to T-shirt and shorts and hopes Finn is already asleep. But if he sees the mark, so be it. It's not like they can avoid this conversation forever. It's not like Poe even _wants_ to. He just wishes this was a better time for it.

Fortunately, when he emerges, Finn is passed out cold on top of the bed. He managed to get boots and jacket off, but is otherwise fully clothed, lying curled up on one side, breathing deep and even. Poe watches him for a long minute, the way Finn's face smooths out in sleep, all the hard lines of his body softening. It's sorely tempting to crawl right in there with him -- not in a sexual sense, just to curl up behind him, press his cheek against that broad, warm back and listen to his heartbeat. But of course Poe doesn't. Instead, he quietly retrieves a spare bedroll from one of the storage bins and unrolls it on the floor at the foot of the bed, grabbing one of the pillows that's not currently under Finn's head. There's more than enough space, and Poe's slept on far worse. He's way too tired to care, anyway.

Within minutes, the soft sounds of Finn's breathing lull him to sleep, too.

* * *

Poe wakes up first, some indeterminate amount of time later. No one's come looking for him yet, so it's probably not too late. He keeps the lights as low as possible as he dresses and slips out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him. With luck, he'll be able to get the lay of the land quickly and be back before Finn knows he's gone.

He's not quite fast enough. When he returns, Finn is sitting at the edge of the bed, studying the star charts that Poe has pinned up on the walls. His short hair looks a little damp, so Poe guesses he made use of the 'fresher.

"Good morning," Poe says brightly. "Sorry, I was trying to get back before you woke up."

Finn gets awkwardly to his feet. "No problem. Actually, uh, I'm pretty sure I'm the one who should be apologizing to you, because I totally stole your bed last night, so, yeah. Sorry about that."

Poe grins. "No apology necessary. You're my guest, and anyway, I don't think you could've kept your eyes open long enough for me to get anything else set up for you."

"You're not wrong," Finn agrees wryly. "I'm pretty sure that's the most I've slept since Jakku, although that's not saying much." His face turns serious. "What have I missed?"

"Not much, don't worry. Snap got back a couple hours ago with the data scans of Starkiller; the techs are analyzing them now. Won't be long before you and I get called in to review their analyses, and then the General will brief the rest of the command teams and, Force willing, we come up with a workable battle plan. So while we've got a minute…" Poe proffers the small sack of sweetbreads he just pilfered from the mess. "Breakfast?"

Finn nods fervently, making grabby hands. "Yes, please."

Poe drops down onto the bed, depositing the bag between them, and Finn joins him without hesitation. He pretty much just grabs the first roll he finds without looking and shoves it into his mouth. Poe has to laugh at the expression on his face when the flavor hits. "Hey, this is...good!"

"You got one of the cheese ones, right? I think there's a couple more in there, if you like 'em so much."

Finn hums agreement, fully engaged in stuffing his mouth with gusto. Poe's not quite as ravenous -- he'd already inhaled a couple en route from the mess, just to take the edge off -- so he takes his time selecting his own sweetbread, picking it apart slowly to make it last while he watches Finn out of the corner of his eye.

It's weird. Every since his new mark appeared, he's spent a lot of emotional energy spinning out in private over what it means, what _Finn_ means to him. But now that he's actually here with him, all that internal turbulence seems...calmer, somehow. Like Poe can just _be_. It's strangely soothing.

Once he's demolished a good three-quarters of the bag, Finn finally pauses to, like, breathe. He meets Poe's amused gaze somewhat sheepishly. "Sorry. I didn't realize how hungry I was until, you know."

"No worries." Poe pops the last bite of his roll into his mouth. "We're gonna have a pretty exciting day ahead of us, thanks to your intel, so eat up. No telling when we'll have time to grab another meal."

Finn sobers again. "Yeah, no kidding. The waiting's gonna drive me crazy, though." His mouth twists. "Hard not to feel guilty about getting a good night's sleep and a proper breakfast while Rey's probably strapped into some torture device on Starkiller, you know?"

"Don't feel too guilty, it wasn't _that_ much sleep," Poe says, more or less on autopilot. His mind shies away from memories of the Finalizer, Kylo Ren scraping through his brain with icy claws. He shudders and shakes his head to clear it. "Anyway, from what you've said about your friend, she sounds like a fighter. We'll get her out of there, I promise."

Finn gives him a crooked smile. "I appreciate it, but you know that's not really something you can promise, right?"

"You got _me_ out," Poe points out softly. "I believe in you, Finn. If anyone can reach Rey, it's you."

Finn hunches his shoulders forward, fiddling with the last sweetbread and not quite meeting Poe's eyes. "You don't even _know_ me, not really."

 _The mark on my arm says otherwise,_ Poe doesn't say aloud. Instead, he gives the matter due consideration. Finn's right, they've spent barely a few hours in each other's company, all told. And Poe can't begin to imagine what Finn's life up to this point has been like. But that doesn't mean he doesn't _know_ him. "I know you're a good man," he says eventually. He makes sure to look Finn in the eye as he says it. "You're not Resistance, you didn't even want to go back to Jakku in the first place, but you found BB-8 and helped them complete our mission anyway. I know you're brave--"

"Brave," Finn snorts, "are you kidding me, did you not see me on the Finalizer, I was scared shitless--"

"If you're not scared, it doesn't count as bravery," Poe counters. "So. Brave. You think well on your feet, and you're a quick learner, even under incredibly stressful circumstances. From the frankly astounding amount of intel you gave us on Starkiller, I know you're both intelligent and observant. You're loyal to your friends -- you knew Rey for, what, a day? Yet you're willing to move heaven and earth to bring her home. So you're determined, too. And resilient as all hell. Sure, there's plenty of stuff I don't know about you yet, but that's just…" He flaps a hand dismissively. "... _stuff_. It's not what makes you _you_ , Finn. Rey is incredibly lucky to have you on her side, because yeah, you'll get her out of there. That's a promise I feel pretty confident making." He takes a deep breath, giving Finn a lopsided smile of his own. "So, yeah. What I know about you already -- that's enough. And when all this is over, buddy, I'd love the chance to get to know you better."

Finn is looking rather gobsmacked, and yeah, okay, Poe probably came on a bit strong there, but there is no way in hell he's gonna let the guy go off into mortal danger without knowing he's got someone who believes in him. Because Poe _does_. He really, really does.

This is insane, a small voice in the back of Poe's head informs him. He's never felt this strongly about anyone, this _sure_ of them, this fast. Is this what it's always like, when someone meets their markmate? Absolutely insane. No wonder there are so many damn stories about shit like this.

Finn continues to stare at him, mouth agape, something like wonder in his eyes. "That's...wow. No one's ever…" He trails off, shaking his head. "Just, thanks. It means a lot to me." He manages to meet Poe's eyes again, a curious little smile starting to tug at the corners of his mouth. "Is it weird that I kinda feel like I know you, too? I mean, obviously I don't really, like literally all I know about you is that you're the best damn pilot I've ever seen, but…"

"Maybe not so weird," Poe murmurs. Are they actually gonna talk about this? Kriff it, Poe's gonna talk about this. He slowly starts to roll up his sleeve. "Listen, Finn--"

And that's when the door gets bumped open by BB-8, who rolls in, beeping excitedly.

"Shit," Poe says, jumping to his feet. "The General needs us, they've got the data scan from Starkiller ready."

Finn nods and follows more slowly. He still looks a bit dazed. "Right. Starkiller. That's a thing."

"Gotta rescue Rey," Poe reminds him. BB-8 trills their approval, and Poe pats the little droid on the smooth dome of their head. "Yeah, buddy, I know you're worried about her, too."

"Right," Finn says again. That determination is back in his eyes, and he gives Poe a firm nod. "Let's go."

 _Later,_ Poe thinks, neatly compartmentalizing his disappointment and tucking it away into a quiet corner of his mind. They'll talk about the Forcemark thing later. Assuming they both survive whatever comes next.

* * *

There's a pretty good chance that _no one_ is going to survive whatever comes next. Actually, Poe gives himself higher odds than the General at this point. At least _he's_ gonna be a moving target. If the Starkiller manages to fire its improbably massive weapon, the entire Ileenium system will be blasted into so much stardust, along with D'Qar and everyone remaining on it. Theoretically, should the worst occur, Poe could still jump to lightspeed in his little X-Wing and save his own skin.

He won't, of course, because he's pretty sure life wouldn't be worth living if it came to that. But theoretically.

Despite the frantic rush to get all the fighters prepped and in the air, everyone Poe passes seems strangely calm. Focused. Determined. He checks in on every single one of his pilots, exchanges a few words or just a clap on the back. His squad leaders have fallen into their usual patterns: Tallie is cheerful as always, shouting commands to Blue Squadron as though she's giving a pep talk; Iolo swaps insults with his cantankerous R5 unit as the droid gets loaded into his ship; Sara Bel-Sun scrubs her X-Wing's canopy with a soapy rag until it gleams, blindingly bright.

Technically, they're only scrambling two squadrons for this fight, though it's actually a mix of the strongest pilots from all four. Those remaining will fly defense patrols around D'Qar, and some are escorting a few transports off-planet in the hopes of making it out of the system entirely before the Starkiller has a chance to fire. They don't have time for a full evacuation, but the true civilians, at least, will hopefully survive if the worst should happen.

If Poe does his job right today, it won't be necessary, but he's not willing to bet the lives of his friends' families on that.

Karé is going with the transports as escort. Actually, Poe flat out puts her in command of them. She tries to protest: "I'm one of the best shots you've got, I couldn't possibly--"

"Lysa is six months old," he says, quiet but firm. "You want me to have to come back and explain to a literal infant why her mark scarred up before she could even talk? Besides, those transports will need damn good pilots looking out for them. I don't want to go through all the trouble of evacuating a bunch of innocent civvies just to have them shot down before they can make landfall somewhere safe."

She'll never admit it, but Poe recognizes the look in her eyes when she backs down. It's pure relief. 

"I'll catch you on the flip side," he tells her, pulling her in for a quick hug.

Karé's arms are strong and tight around him. "You better, Dameron."

He hasn't had a chance to tell her, yet, about his own unexpected mark. He doesn't tell her now. She'd probably just laugh, anyway.

And Finn -- he doesn't exchange a proper goodbye with Finn. That would feel too much like jinxing it. There's one point, right after he's loaded BB-8 up into the X-Wing, that he glimpses Finn en route to the Falcon, clutching a blaster, looking grim. Poe claps him on the shoulder, but that's all he has time for.

Later, though, when they're all in the air and getting ready for the jump to hyperspeed, Poe flips opens his comm to hail the Falcon directly -- because of course the persnickety old bird uses an outdated frequency that you have to manually call in. "Red Leader to Falcon, you ready to punch it?"

"Yeah, yeah, just give us another minute," Solo replies distractedly. Poe can hear the distinctive groan of an irritable Wookiee in the background. "Yes, I know the compressor -- oh, for kriff's sake. Finn, can you take the comm for a second?"

Poe grins a little too broadly, secure in the knowledge that no one can see him. "Hey there, Finn. That bucket holding together okay?"

"Yeah, _barely_ ," Finn says, but he sounds cheerful enough about it. "I think Chewie's just about got it sorted. Sorry for the hold up."

"Not a problem. We're ready to follow your lead on this one, Falcon."

"Cool, cool. Hey, Poe?"

"Yeah?"

"After this is done," Finn says, and Poe knows that brilliant, determined light is in his eyes; he can hear it in the tone of his voice even over the shitty comm frequency. "When we get back. I'd really like the chance to get to know you better, too."

Poe swallows hard. His mark feels hot and strange in the curve of his elbow. "Count on it, buddy."

* * *

Poe survives.

He doesn't know how, but he _survives_ , and he takes the whole damn horrible evil Starkiller planet down on his way out. They take heavy losses. He had to listen to some good pilots scream and die over headset while he kept his eyes on the prize, kept flying, kept shooting. None of those deaths have really registered, yet. There's a part of his brain that refused to acknowledge them as they were happening, refused to take note of who those voices belonged to, refused to match names to callsigns. Those, he had to keep track of, but it helps that all the squads were mashed up illogically, no one flying under their usual sign. He's never been Red Leader until a few hours ago. He lost Reds Two, Three, Six, Eight, and Nine; no idea who any of those designations correspond to today. (He thinks Iolo might have been Red Three. He's not thinking about that right now.) Karé Kun is Black Three; there was no Black Three in the skies above Starkiller, because she got out early, Black Three is currently a civilian transport en route to...he can't remember where. It's okay, though. They hadn't needed to evacuate after all.

They won. They _won_. Not the war, of course not, the First Order are like cockroaches, they're freaking everywhere; but this was the worst of them, the planet-killer, the Starkiller, and it's gone. Truly gone. There's no second Death Star lying in wait. This was the big one, and they _did it_.

He's shoving the canopy up and open practically the instant he comes to a stop on the tarmac at D'Qar. BB-8 trills impatiently, but they can get down on their own, they don't really need Poe's help. He flings himself out of the cockpit and very nearly faceplants right into the concrete in his haste, just barely catches himself at the last minute. He's had eyes on the Falcon from pretty much the first moment he'd spotted it peeling away from the exploding planet, kept it in his sights all the way through hyperspace, right up until they all began their descents to D'Qar. He knows exactly where the old girl came to earth.

They did it. Finn kriffing _did it_. Poe's face actually hurts as he jogs across the hangar toward the Falcon, he's smiling so hard.

And then he sees Chewbacca hurrying down the Falcon's ramp, a limp form cradled carefully in his big, furry arms. Behind him is a slender, weary-looking young woman. Rey, Poe thinks distantly. That must be Rey.

Chewie hands Finn's too-still body over to the medics.

"No, no no -- shit. Finn!" Poe turns to the girl, a little wildly. "What the hell happened?"

"Kylo Ren," she says. Her face is pale and drawn. "Lightsaber to the back."

"We've got a heartbeat," one of the medics calls, and their transport starts to pull away. Poe shoots one last, helpless glance back at the girl before jogging after it. She's standing very still and alone. There's no sign of Han Solo anywhere. He can't think about the ramifications of that right now. He feels as though all the breath has been punched out of his lungs.

Finn. Kylo Ren. Lightsaber to the back.

Later, Poe will pinpoint this as the moment everything really starts going to shit.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which pretty much everything goes to shit.

The Resistance is very efficient at organizing funerals.

There aren't any bodies to bury, of course. Now that Poe thinks on it, he hasn't been to an actual burial since his childhood on Yavin. His world is populated by pilots and soldiers, and space is vast. He knows that when he goes, someday, it'll likely be the same: faulty wiring somewhere important, or dodging just a hair too slowly, or plain bad luck. However it happens, at least it'll probably be quick. And then he'll be stardust. Like his mother.

Like his friends.

Seventeen out of the twenty-four X-Wing pilots who had participated in the battle at Starkiller. Sara Bel-Sun, their usual Red Leader, her X-Wing canopy always sparkling. Ello Asty, a perennial prankster. Pallaris Ven. The list goes on.

Iolo Arana, who'd been the first to suggest to Poe that they join the Resistance. That's two down from their old Rapier Squadron. ( _Two to go,_ he tries not to think.)

Han Solo, who Poe had primarily known through his papa's old war stories of the first Rebellion.

And if you count the Hosnian Cataclysm...well. How do you mourn an entire star system? Anyone he knew from the New Republic Fleet, anyone from the old days who hadn't defected to the Resistance -- they're probably all gone now. Poe can't even begin to wrap his head around that. 

He gives the eulogy for Iolo and the other pilots, missing Karé down to the very core of his being. She'd do it better, he thinks, but he knows he made the right decision in sending her away. Karé, her family, and the other civilians made safe landfall at Takodana. From there, the three transports intend to split off in different directions, scattering. Ensuring that no matter what happens next, the Resistance will live on.

They'll all have to scatter, soon. The First Order may have suffered a severe setback, but they haven't been destroyed. Supreme Leader Snoke is still out there, scheming. And now they know about the base at D'Qar. It's only a matter of time before those bastards manage to regroup enough to come after them.

But they can take an evening to toast those they've lost, and celebrate the living.

It's a strange night. The mood on the base is impossible to describe -- after all, the Resistance just won a major victory. Starkiller base destroyed, the Hosnian system avenged...and yet, stars above, _so many_ lost. But new cause for optimism, as well: the Millennium Falcon is already en route to the last Jedi Temple, where Rey will hopefully find Luke Skywalker and convince him to join their cause.

Once words have been spoken for the dead, out under the night stars, the gathering shifts into something more akin to a party, albeit a bittersweet one. Tallie and Snap have broken into the engineers' moonshine, and the other pilots (those who'd survived the attack on Starkiller as well as those who'd remained to defend D'Qar) gather around to fill their own cups. Someone is playing some kind of electric fiddle, and a few of the more musically inclined fetch their own instruments to join him. Jess Pava and her markmate dance together -- always entertaining to watch, since Jess is a foot and half shorter than them. Others join in. Normally, Poe would be letting loose like anyone else, drinking and dancing away the stress and horror and loss of the past few days, finding a willing partner to close out the night. Orron the machinist is always fun for a quick kriff, and Poe catches him looking at one point, but he's just...not in the mood.

He excuses himself from dancing in order to refill his cup, but instead of returning to the larger group, he wanders back down into the base itself. The command center has a few stragglers with their heads together over maps and star charts; in one darkened corner, he spots Connix and Paige Tico, who are definitely _not_ discussing logistics. It almost makes him head back out to the party in search of Orron, after all, but instead he finds himself making his way over to med bay. 

It's quiet there at this time of night, especially with the majority of the base holding their wake out under the stars. Dr. Kalonia and her minions are nowhere to be seen, but the med-droids keep watch in their place. There are only a handful of patients right now anyway.

The battle of Starkiller had been almost entirely an aerial assault, after all. And pilots rarely get _injured_. They become stardust.

Finn lies very still on his bed, monitors glowing faintly. Only the slight rise and fall of his chest indicates that he's alive at all. He'd been rushed directly into a bacta tank when they'd got him off the Falcon, Poe knows, to stave off the worst of the damage. The lightsaber had scored across his back and shoulder, but hadn't severed the spinal cord. It might've actually been Poe's thick leather jacket that saved him.

Poe makes a mental note to stitch it back together, so that it'll be waiting for Finn when he wakes up.

Eventually, the doc had said, they'll get him back in bacta to prevent his muscles from atrophying, but for now the wounds need to be kept clean and dry. The coma is medically induced, to keep him from accidentally harming himself while he heals. It's all going to be fine.

Poe cups his drink in both hands and stares down at Finn's unmoving face. And prays, sort of. In as much as he ever has, which isn't much. He doesn't really believe in a higher power; but if it's really the Force that brought them together, that etched Finn's name so starkly on Poe's skin, then surely it must be for more than this. It _has_ to be.

A med-droid wheels in and jacks itself into the monitor at Finn's side. It beeps approvingly to itself, then starts to roll away.

"Wait," Poe says, on impulse. "Hey. Do droids know about Forcemarks?"

The med-droid tilts its head and whirrs at him, clearly unimpressed.

"I'll take that as a yes. Does Finn -- I mean, did you take note of his?" Poe holds his hands out placatingly. "I know it might be, like, doctor-patient confidentiality, I'm not asking you to point it out, I just wanna know if it's noted anywhere on his file or something. In case we need to, you know. Notify them."

Somewhere in his personal belongings, he's still got an old set of New Republic tags, marked with a U. As weird as it still is to contemplate, as unwilling as he is to share this new piece of information with anyone else...maybe he should get Dr. Kalonia to update his own file.

The droid considers him for a long moment. Eventually it beeps out a quick negative in binary. Poe's heart thuds in his chest.

"Negative as in he doesn't have a mark noted down anywhere, or negative as in you just don't wanna tell _me_?" he asks, to be sure.

The med-droid informs him that there is no mark on this patient. And that it has many more important tasks to accomplish right now. Then it wheels away.

Poe stares after it for a long time. That doesn't make sense. Surely, Poe's name must be somewhere on Finn's body, too -- that's just how this _works_. As far as Poe knows, anyway.

But then, nothing about Poe's mark has ever made much sense. _Is_ Finn even his original markmate, the one whose name blurred away? Or is it like Leia told him about those left behind after the destruction of Alderaan: new marks appearing years later, _as though the Force sought to make recompense for their loss._

He looks back to Finn, who's still breathing slow and deep. The medics have dressed him in a clean white robe long enough to cover the knees. The sleeves are loose, reaching just past the elbow.

Markmates don't always have their marks in the same physical location, but it's more common than not. So theoretically, the odds are good that if Finn _is_ his markmate (and he has to be!), then it should be tucked into his elbow, same as Poe's.

Poe reaches out hesitantly to take Finn's hand in his own. It feels cool to the touch. It shouldn't, he thinks. Finn seems like the sort of guy who always runs hot, always has to be in motion. All of this just feels so unnatural, so _wrong_.

Gently, carefully, he turns Finn's hand toward him, until the palm faces upward. And then he tugs lightly at the hem of the sleeve, just enough to bare the soft skin of Finn's inner elbow.

There's no mark. But what he finds instead, unsettlingly, is a patch of discolored skin, too pale and tinged with pink, almost like a scar.

"Skin graft," comes a clipped voice from behind him. Poe releases Finn with a jerk, swivels around to see Dr. Kalonia standing there. Her expression is unreadable. "Old one, too. Strangely primitive, if it was due to injury. Bacta is far more advanced for treating open wounds, and would have either healed or regrown his existing skin. But then, given the nature of the First Order, I rather suspect it was intended for a different purpose."

Poe swallows hard, his stomach lurching. Skin grafted over skin. "Like, say, covering something up?"

"I'd never really considered, before," Kalonia muses, "if Stormtroopers might have markmates. Seems rather antithetical to the whole regime, don't you think? A name appearing on a soldier's skin without warning, something that their commanders could not control. Proof of a power in the galaxy greater than their own." She leans over to straighten Finn's sleeve, settling it gently over his arm. "Well, at least he can choose his own future now."

She doesn't ask what Poe was doing here or reprimand him. Just pats him lightly on the shoulder as she moves on to the next bed.

Poe takes Finn's hand back into his own, trying to will some of his own warmth into it, his mind a perfect blank with unbidden fury.

* * *

The next day, they begin preparing for the evacuation.

Logistics have settled on a viable site on Ajan Kloss, where Luke Skywalker had once trained his sister in the ways of the Jedi. It's a secluded Outer Rim moon on the opposite end of the galaxy from D'Qar, nowhere near any other sector of strategic importance to either side. It won't be a quick trip, that's for sure. Two full transports of Logistics and maintenance personnel will depart immediately, in order to expand the tiny existing base there and prepare for the arrival of the rest of the Resistance. Poe promptly promotes Snap Wexley to squadron leader and sends him and the rest of Black Squadron along with the transports as escort. Once they're safely established on Ajan Kloss, Black Squadron will go on to contact the rest of the scattered civilian evacuees and their pilots, reconvene, and then split off on recruitment missions on behalf of the Resistance. Could take months before Poe sees them again, but they desperately need to increase their ranks, given the catastrophic loss of the New Republic fleet. Poe wonders darkly if the devastation of the Hosnian Cataclysm will finally sway a few fence-sitters over to the Resistance's cause.

The advance team sets out within two days. Everyone remaining on D'Qar gets busy with the evacuation plans. New faces appear on base, as a few Resistance cruisers that had been stationed elsewhere arrive to assist. Finn doesn't wake up.

In the past, Poe's anger generally burned hot and bright, quick to pass, and as a fighter pilot, he's pretty good at channeling it productively into blowing shit up. Now, though, it settles into a simmering rage beneath his skin. It's constant, exhausting, and _useless_ , leaves him feeling wrung out and helpless. Maybe Leia sees it, the first or tenth time he's short-tempered in Command meetings, because she sets him to near-constant patrols, keeping his sensors scanning for any trace of First Order activity in their sector. At least then it's just him and BB-8 and the empty sky, and being out among the stars has always settled him in a way nothing else can.

He spends hours upon hours out in the black, staring out at the stars and plotting a thousand different ways to destroy the First Order, to rain fire and hell upon them all, one ugly ship at a time.

They complete their preparations. The final evacuation from D'Qar is set for the following morning. Finn doesn't wake up.

The General finds him in med bay late that evening, keeping vigil at Finn's side as he has every night since Starkiller. "How's he doing?" she asks, voice gentle.

Poe shrugs. He doesn't take his eyes off the slow rise and fall of Finn's chest. "No change. The doc says he's healing as expected. He'll go back in bacta when they move him onto the _Raddus_ 's medical facilities."

"Bacta spacesuits have the advantage of looking utterly ridiculous," Leia says drily. "Though far more portable than the standard tanks, I grant you."

"I guess." Poe doesn't particularly care what it looks like. He just wants Finn to _wake up_.

Leia regards him for a moment, then pulls up a seat beside him. "Finn will be fine, you know. He's young, healthy, and stubborn. He'll heal." She shakes her head wryly. "Strong-willed, that one. The Force isn't done with him yet."

There's somewhat almost otherworldly in her tone when she says it. Poe's mark itches under his sleeve, that anger simmering acrid and bitter in his veins. "Yeah? Was it the will of the Force when the First Order turned him into a Stormtrooper?"

He knows he's being a dick, lashing out for no reason when she's just trying to be kind. She doesn't seem to take affront at it. "It sounds horrible when you put it like that, doesn't it? But if your friend Finn hadn't been raised as a Stormtrooper, then we might never have learned enough about the Starkiller base to destroy it, and countless billions more might have died. So awful as it was, and much as I would have spared him it, perhaps he was exactly where he needed to be."

She's right, and in this moment, he hates her a little for it. "They burned his mark away, did you know?" he says. "Or something like it. Covered it up for good."

"Kalonia told me," Leia agrees quietly. "Even the Empire never went so far that I know of. Although their troopers were clones, so perhaps it was different. Still. You don't know how many times I've wondered, since, if they had marks of their own. Something yearning and unfulfilled within them, to make them so angry and self-righteous. Their leaders certainly did. Vader did."

That thought manages to break through Poe's simmering rage, catches him off guard. " _Darth Vader_ had a markmate out there?"

Leia smiles ruefully. "My mother, yes. It's part of what finally drove him to the Dark Side, losing her. Or so I'm told." Her dark eyes meet his with intent. "The Sith, the First Order -- they're still _people_. Dark and light have equal shares in the Force, Poe. We're all tangled up in the same net. All we can do is our best." She lays a hand on Finn's unmoving shoulder, gently. "And something tells me Finn's best is yet to come. Being Unmarked has certainly never held _you_ back, has it?"

Poe has no idea how to respond to that.

* * *

The First Order arrives just as they're completing the evacuation. There are still transports yet to launch when the alert comes in. Poe and Blue Squadron are already in the air.

They don't have enough starfighters to face down two Star Destroyers and a kriffing dreadnought. But they do have bombers ready to launch. And they have Poe Dameron.

It comes down to this: Finn is still in a coma on the Resistance's flagship.

Poe doesn't even hesitate before setting his sights on the dreadnought and its surface cannons. Doesn't hesitate before ordering Tallie to lead the bombers in. Doesn't hesitate before switching off his comm link to the _Raddus_ bridge.

So _this_ winds up being the first of Leia's orders he ever directly disobeys.

As it turns out, it won't be the last.

* * *

They destroy the dreadnought and successfully escape into lightspeed, at the price of their entire squad of bombers. Poe isn't mentally prepared to evaluate that cost. Not so soon after Starkiller.

On the plus side, Finn is awake now. And Leia was right: that bacta suit looks _ridiculous_ , especially when it's leaking all over the damn place.

There's a span of, oh, ten or so minutes where the crash of relief overwhelms the banked rage still humming under Poe's skin. Even Finn's single-minded focus on Rey's absence doesn't derail him. The guy literally almost died trying to protect his friend from Kylo Ren; it's no surprise that his first concern upon awakening is for her safety. 

He helps Finn stagger back to medical, giving him a quick rundown on what he's missed in the meantime and assuring him that wherever Rey is, she's probably doing way better than the rest of them right now. Once there, Poe reluctantly abandons him to an irate Dr. Kalonia -- whose ire doesn't seem to be directed at Finn so much as her staff who somehow permitted a coma patient in a bag of bacta to _walk right out_ unnoticed in the first place.

"I'll come back when I can," Poe promises, and Finn just nods mournfully as he submits himself to the doc's tender mercies.

Frankly, Poe would rather deal with an entire army of med-droids right now than whatever backlash he's about to face from the General. He's probably going to get his ass handed to him for the stunt he just pulled with the dreadnought, and a tiny voice in the back of his mind murmurs that he might even deserve it.

When he arrives at the bridge, though, there's an unexpected reprieve: Leia has sequestered herself in her private quarters with orders not to be disturbed. Instead, he reports to Admiral Statura, along with Tallie, whose hair is still a tangled mess from her flight helmet.

"All eight of our bombers and their crews in exchange for a dreadnought," Statura says with a frown. "Certainly a victory, but at what cost, Dameron?"

"They lost one of their most aggressive warships and its entire crew -- that's around ten _thousand_ First Order troops," Poe says, doing his best to hold firm. "And we lost less than twenty. I'm not saying every life isn't valuable, because it is -- they _were_ \-- but compared to the lives they saved by taking that dreadnought out of commission…"

"I don't necessarily disagree," Statura sighs. "But the First Order can afford even so great a loss far more than we can right now. And I don't view any of our people as expendable."

"Neither do I, Admiral, but--"

"You're a hell of a pilot, son," Statura tells him heavily. "And I won't stop you from risking your own neck, since you generally get such spectacular results. But not every battle is a Starkiller. The risks we take must be proportionate." He waves a hand at him. "Go, both of you. We'll be in hyperspace for approximately sixteen hours. Tend to your X-Wings and your pilots, and get some rest. We'll need everyone sharp for whatever comes next." He looks Poe right in the eyes as he adds, "And you'd best brace yourself, Commander. The General is _not_ pleased."

Poe's mouth tightens. He's definitely in for it. He exchanges a glance with Tallie, who's been silent throughout. She nods. Together, they leave the bridge and find one of several ready rooms intended for meetings, this one currently unoccupied. Poe would rather do this debrief in private.

"All right," he says, taking a seat at a table too large for just the two of them. "Talk to me, Tallie. In your opinion, what went wrong?"

Tallie considers it as she plops down into her own chair. She's not his boldest squadron leader, or the most creative, but she's thoughtful and intelligent. "Combination of limited resources and just plain bad luck," she finally says. "We needed a lot more fighters in the air to effectively protect the bombers, but with the evacuation, we didn't have time to scramble them. Not to mention that half our pilots are out on mission anyway."

Snap and Karé feel like missing limbs right now, even though Poe knows he had good reason to send them and the other absent pilots away. "It doesn't help that those bombers weren't really built for that sort of aerial assault, either."

"Nope," she agrees. "They move like beached whales. You need to really clear the airspace ahead of them in order to use them effectively. One good hit to the wrong place, and...well."

A ship full of armed bombs just can't sustain a direct hit. And if they're clustered too close together over the same target -- well, they'd all seen what happened. Chain reactions are no fun when it's your own side getting hit with them.

He thinks about brave, determined Paige Tico, the last surviving gunner, whose ship had been enveloped in the blast that had finally taken down that dreadnought. He'd only really known her in passing. Knew she was smart, though not half as clever as her markmate sister. Knew she was good at what she did. And he'd _screamed_ at her over the comms to drop her bombs. His was the last voice she ever heard.

The worst part is, Poe had known it was a dubious strategy from the start. But it was the only thing he'd come up with in time, and he's rarely had occasion to command a bomber squadron like that in the past. His responsibility. His fault.

"If it had been you," he says to Tallie. "If you'd been in the position to make the call, would you have ordered the bombing run? Or would you have disengaged once the transports were clear?"

Tallie sighs, slumping forward a little with her elbows braced on the table. "To take down a dreadnought...it's almost worth any risk, isn't it? Especially given how vulnerable we are right now. But the body count…" She shrugs ruefully. "I think I would have hesitated. And that hesitation would have wound up making the call for me, whether I liked it or not. We would have lost the chance entirely if we hadn't pressed the advantage when we did." She rests her chin on her hand, meeting his eyes with no little sympathy. "And that's why you're the commander and I'm just Blue Leader. Hindsight's great and all, but in the moment, you gotta have the guts to make the call. And you do, Poe. Even if it's not always the perfect decision, it's still better to _make_ it and get shit done than waffle about considering every possible angle. I got your back on this one, boss."

She reaches out to give his hand a quick squeeze. He holds on, probably a little too tightly, and exhales.

* * *

He tends to his X-Wing, which definitely has a few new scorch marks and faulty wiring after his little adventure today. Once he's worked her over to the best of his ability, he turns her maintenance over to the nearest mechanic and swings by medical again in the hopes of seeing Finn. Apparently the docs have him cloistered away for a full battery of tests, so the droid on duty promises to notify Poe when Finn is ready to be released. It's as good as he's gonna get right now, so he accepts defeat and retreats to his own quarters. Outside his room, he blanks out for a minute, trying to think of the new door code. Then he remembers he hasn't actually set one yet. So there's that.

Statura was probably right about getting some rest while he can.

He dozes fitfully, jolting awake several times to vague, half-remembered impressions of fire and screaming, and something drilling into his head. Once, he's the one screaming, feeling the mark on his arm burn and melt away to the bone. It's just a dream, of course. The echoes of imagined pain dissipate as soon as he's fully awake, and the name inked into his skin is still there. But after that, there's no chance of getting back to sleep.

So he heads back out to the hangar bay to check on his X-Wing. That's where BB-8 finds him, beeping happily that Finn is being released from medical and also that they're supposed to report to the bridge as soon as the ship exits hyperspace.

"Thanks, buddy," Poe says. "How about you go up and wait for us there?"

He all but jogs the whole way to medical, heart thumping irrationally in his chest.

Finn jumps to his feet the instant he catches sight of Poe, looking torn between relief and chagrin. "Poe! I told them they didn't have to--"

Behind him, Dr. Kalonia sighs. "Commander Dameron can help you get situated. I'm not about to let you wander off on your own again."

Finn rolls his eyes. "That was one time! And I'm sure he's got more important things to do right now."

"He managed to find the time to sit with you every single night while you were still comatose," Kalonia says drily. "I don't think he'll mind."

Poe scrubs his hand across his face. He really hadn't needed the doc to share that particular nugget of intel, but whatever. Finn brightens noticeably, and Poe supposes that's worth a little embarrassment. "I really don't mind," he assures him. "Come on, let's get you out of here. The General will want to see us soon."

Once they're out in the hallway, Poe looks Finn up and down. "You're looking a lot steadier on your feet. And I'm glad they scrounged up something better to wear than that bacta suit."

"That's not saying much," Finn remarks, glancing down at himself. He's dressed in simple trousers and a cream-colored shirt. "My old clothes apparently weren't salvageable after Starkiller." He looks up to meet Poe's eyes, ruefully. "Oh, hell, Poe, your jacket--"

" _Your_ jacket."

"Right. The lightsaber -- I guess that pretty much destroyed it, huh?"

Poe grins at him. "Nah, just gave it some character. Here, we should have time for a quick detour."

They don't, not really. He should be reporting directly to the bridge, to the General. But kriff it, Finn needs his goddamn jacket back. Poe's dressing-down can wait a few more minutes.

Without thinking too much about it, he takes Finn's hand and tugs him around a corner. He keeps his grip loose and light, almost casual, but Finn doesn't let go of him the whole way down to the lower deck.

"We gonna be roommates again?" Finn asks wryly, as Poe taps out the new door code and lets them into his quarters.

All the personal compartments in this part of the ship were designed to house multiple crewmen, so there actually are two bunks in this one. "Of course, if you want," Poe says. Did that sound too eager? He backpedals as gracefully as possible, adding, "Though a ship this size is built for a hell of a lot more personnel than we've currently got, so if you want a private room, I guarantee we can track one down for you."

Finn perches on one of the bunks. "Nah, that's okay. I mean, if it's okay with you." He gives Poe a sheepish smile. "Don't make it weird or anything, but I'm not used to sleeping alone. I mean, in a room by myself. The quiet creeps me out a little."

"Yeah," Poe says. "It's okay with me. More than okay." He rubs the back of his neck. "It's really good to see you up and walking again, I don't know if I mentioned."

"Thanks, I appreciate that. And you too." Finn's smile goes a little crooked. "Though it's not like I expected otherwise. Best pilot in the Resistance, right? Starkiller never stood a chance."

Poe huffs out a laugh, but there's not much mirth in it. "Yeah, well, I had help."

He'd managed to forget, for a little while: Iolo Arana. Sara Bel-Sun. All the others shot down over Starkiller. And now all their bomber crews, too. On Poe's order. It hasn't even begun to register properly.

He's not so sure that being the best pilot in the Resistance is much to brag about, if it means he's the only one who makes it back.

"Me, too," Finn is saying, lost in his own thoughts, unaware of the dark turn Poe's have taken. "I really hope Rey's all right."

Rey. Right. Poe forces himself to smile, to keep his tone upbeat. "She's more than all right, buddy. She's probably halfway to becoming a Jedi as we speak. And she's gonna bring Luke Skywalker back to save all our asses." 

Finn sighs. "I hope you're right."

For all that he's keeping his tone casual, there's a thread of genuine anxiety underlying it. Poe sits down beside him on the bunk. "You're really worried about her, huh?"

"I know it's dumb," Finn groans, hunching his shoulders forward. "I know she took on Kylo Ren and held her own, after he completely kicked my ass in like less than a minute. She can look after herself better than pretty much anyone else in the galaxy."

"But you care about her," Poe says softly. "And that means you worry. That all you want in the world is to have her by your side, so that you can see for yourself she's okay. I get it, Finn, I really do." He hesitates, then puts a hand on Finn's shoulder, squeezing gently.

Finn leans into him a bit. "It's not just her I worry about, it's all of us. It just sounds like we're putting so much on her shoulders right now. Even if she and Skywalker do manage to find us again… I really don't get how one Jedi, no matter how powerful, is gonna be enough to turn the tide against the First Order."

"It's not…" Poe trails off, thinking it over. "Okay. It's not that having Luke Skywalker fighting beside us will magically fix everything. But it's like you said -- you've gone up against Kylo Ren. You managed to survive a lightsaber battle with him, which I honestly think is pretty kriffing amazing in itself. But in order to actually defeat him, or Snoke…" He huffs out a breath. "Look, I'm not Force-sensitive myself, but what I do understand is that it depends upon _balance_. That's why we need Rey and Skywalker. They're our balance against the First Order."

The skin inside his elbow tingles, like static electricity. He's never articulated it in quite this way, but maybe that's what Forcemarks are, too. Proof that there's someone else out there who balances _you_. Keeps you steady. Maybe that's why he's felt so damn off-kilter since Starkiller, while Finn was asleep. Maybe they can balance each other out now.

Finn turns his head to meet Poe's eyes. "You think so?" His voice is lower than usual, a little rough. Their faces are very close.

"Yeah," Poe murmurs. "I do. Hey, Finn--"

The room jolts around them in the telltale lurch of a ship exiting lightspeed. Finn grabs on to him -- whether to keep Poe from falling sideways or to save himself, it's hard to say. Poe can't help but laugh. Seems like the Force really doesn't want them getting too cozy just yet.

"Come on," he says, a little ruefully, as he gets to his feet. "I'm supposed to report in to the General once we're out of lightspeed, and it feels like that's now."

Finn blinks up at him. "Oh. Okay. Wait, was there something you wanted to show me here, or…?"

"Right!" Poe makes a beeline to the crates he's got stacked in one corner. "Your jacket. Gimme a second." He'd dropped off his stuff very early in the morning of the evacuation -- feels like that was days ago already, though it's been less than twenty-four hours. He definitely hasn't had a chance to unpack properly yet. Still, he gets lucky, and it's at the top of the first one he tries. "Here you go. Not quite good as new, but like I said, adds character."

Finn accepts it with an awed light in his eyes, their hands brushing over the worn leather. "Wow, thank you. You got it fixed? For me?"

"Sure," Poe says breezily. "No trouble."

He'd stitched it back together himself, during long hours spent idle at Finn's bedside back on D'Qar. Poe's a pilot, a mechanic. He has a neat and steady hand. Sewing might not be his usual hobby, but it's not particularly difficult.

He doesn't need to tell Finn that, though.

"Thank you," Finn says again. He's grinning to himself as he pulls the jacket back on, and Poe's mind whites out for a second. It looks _really_ good on him, okay? The smile, too.

Poe coughs to clear his throat. "You're welcome. All right, let's head up to the bridge and see what the General wants. If nothing else, I bet someone up there can give you more intel on Rey."

"Yeah," Finn says, already halfway to the door in his enthusiasm. "Let's do that!"

Poe does his best to ignore the sinking sensation in his stomach as he follows him out.

* * *

Leia slaps him and then demotes him, and he's not sure which hurts worse. It's not the physical sting of it -- sure, the General has a hell of a right hook, but she didn't hit him _that_ hard. But it makes him feel like a child. A naughty kid who did a dumb thing. That's how he knows he really did cross a line somewhere, because petty humiliation has never been Leia's style. He wouldn't have followed her all these years if it were.

So, that happens. And is pretty much immediately followed by the devastating discovery that the First Order can now track them through lightspeed.

Poe is running for the hangar bay before he even has a chance to think it through -- with the General's blessing, this time, at least -- and has to detour quickly to grab his flak vest, BB-8 spinning on ahead of him. His fellow pilots are all spilling out of the hallways as well, scrambling for their own X-Wings. Despite the alarms blaring and his own heart pounding its way out of his chest, something in Poe's gut settles at the emergency. This is what he's _good_ at. The strategy is simple: buy the _Raddus_ and the rest of their ragtag fleet time to get out of range of those Star Destroyers, harry the harriers, keep the First Order's fighters at bay. Maybe take out a couple of cannons again if he can. Protect the fleet.

He peels around the corner to the hangar bay. Tallie's X-Wing is already about to launch, good for her, she can take command of the first wave of their defense--

And then the world explodes in front of him.

The blast knocks all the breath out of his lungs, sears it right out. He flies backward, the bare skin of his face and hands scorched, his hair stinking a little as it singes. Lands hard on his ass and skids the rest of the way backwards. All he can see are flames and the burnt-out shell of his own X-Wing. He can hear BB-8 hit the floor with a bang beside him. And then the blast doors slam shut on the carnage.

His ship -- _all_ their X-Wings -- his pilots, their mechanics --

Tallie was _right there_.

Someone is yelling his name. Someone's arm comes around to support his back, helps him sit up. His vision blurs, tears smarting his eyes. Probably from the heat and smoke. Maybe not entirely.

"We need to get out of range of those Star Destroyers," he says. It's all he can think to say.

"Poe," the someone says again, and he realizes distantly that it's Finn. Finn's here, Finn's got him. How the hell did Finn know to be here? He's not a pilot, he had no reason to run for the hangar like Poe. But he's here, as though the mark the First Order stripped away still tethers them together somehow. " _Poe!_ You with me, buddy? Are you okay?"

Poe's whole body aches as though he's just been hit by a freighter. In a way, maybe he has. His face stings like a sunburn. It still feels like the air's been burned out of his lungs.

The hangar bay is on fire. His friends were just blown up right in front of him. Tallie...

"I'm fine," he croaks out. "Just gimme a hand up, I'm fine."

He's really not.

And by the time he and Finn stagger their way back to the bridge, the next blast will have taken that out, too. The Resistance's entire command structure, gone. Just like that.

* * *

A lot happens after that. Logically, Poe knows this. And at the time, he feels every second of it viscerally, each of his senses heightened, his bones practically vibrating out of his skin. He feels sharper and more alert than he's ever been in his entire damn life. Every thought is a thunderstorm in his brain, a lightning strike. Every instinct feels logical, obvious. He can't understand why it isn't equally obvious to everyone else. His decisions are practically unconscious. He's operating on a different plane of existence where everything moves smoothly, where everything is clear and straightforward. His emotions are locked in a steel cage in his chest, buried so deep they can't even touch him. Anger is the only one that licks up around the edges, like a flame, but that's okay. He's comfortable with his anger now. It makes him confident and self-righteous and sure.

The only crack in his facade is Finn, who sometimes glances at him with dark eyes that search too deeply. But Finn is also preoccupied with his own concerns, with Rey. And then he somehow teams up with Rose Tico (Paige's sister, Paige's _markmate_ , and Poe can see the red angry new scar in the hollow of her throat), and they come up with a plan, and Poe lets them go. They're the Resistance's best hope of survival now. And if they fail, if they can't find the codebreaker in time, then at least they'll be far away from all this.

And if _Poe_ fails, at least Finn doesn't have a mark to scar. It's better this way.

Afterward, though...

Here's the thing about trauma, about grief. It isn't logical. It isn't obvious.

At the time, Poe thinks he's just about the only rational person left in the entire kriffing Resistance. Leia's in a coma. Statura and Ackbar and the rest of the admiralty and most of their support staff are dead. Tallie is dead, Iolo is dead, most of the pilots Poe trained with and fought with and laughed with are dead. Snap and Karé and Jess Pava are somewhere out in the far reaches of the galaxy, well out of range. Finn is gone on his own mission. And Poe Dameron is very, very alone.

At the time, everything he does makes perfect sense to him.

Afterward, he can't even remember anything more than muddy fragments. His memories of the flight from D'Qar are about as rational as any of his nightmares about Kylo Ren -- except worse, because he can't just shake them off like a bad dream. Because he has to live with the consequences of those decisions, and the fact that he, Poe Dameron, is the one who made them.

Well, he's been an Unmarked flyboy, a spice runner, and the best damn pilot in the Resistance. Now he can add "mutineer" to the list.

Poe's mutiny fails. Finn's mission fails. Vice Admiral Holdo, whom he never trusted, sacrifices her own life to buy the rest of them the chance to escape. They land on Crait and nearly die there. Rose Tico nearly dies there. _Finn_ nearly dies there. Poe remembers next to nothing about any of it afterward, just flashes of panic and desperation and a few blissful moments of his old calm certainty as he flies an ancient speeder -- though that attack fails, too. Stars above, everything Poe has set his mind to in the past two days has been an abject failure.

Rey saves them.

She's clearly not the person Finn needed to be worrying about.

Once everyone is safely aboard the Falcon -- and _everyone_ is a laughable term for it, there are so few survivors that they all _fit_ aboard the Falcon -- Poe finds an empty cubbyhole in a tucked-away corner, and he curls up there and falls dead asleep.

He wakes up at some point because something brushes against him. It's a blanket, thin and a bit rough. "What…?"

"This hunk of junk gets _cold_ ," Finn's voice murmurs, somewhere above him. "Trust me on this. Go back to sleep, Poe."

In spite of everything, Poe feels a smile tug at the edge of his mouth as he obeys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are a lot of things I genuinely like about TLJ. Poe's storyline is not one of them. But I did my best.
> 
> 11/14/20: In case anyone stumbles upon this -- I swear that this fic has not been abandoned. It's just been a weird year. Thank you for your patience!


End file.
